


the still point

by princedemeter



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Chronic Illness, Gen, Gore, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Police Brutality, READ THE AUTHORS NOTES BEFORE EACH CHAPTER., TRIGGER WARNINGS LABELED HERE, Violence, War, conversion therapy, drug usage, it has a happy ending holy shit it's gonna be ok
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 68,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27149602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princedemeter/pseuds/princedemeter
Summary: 1966. Dream and George meet at twilight in a dormitory lounge, reciting poetry to each other like Shakespearean lovers. When it turns out they have a mutual friend, they are unable to avoid each other and despite their conflicts, fall in love. War looms across the world and protests rage in New York City. Caught up in the tangle of it all, they lean on each other for stability but pressures mount: corruption, greed, engagements, disease, jealousy. It’s the law of entropy: everything falls apart.Or, the dark academia George AU that everybody wanted. Updates every Monday.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Eret (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Minx | JustAMinx (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 551
Kudos: 1084
Collections: Best of DreamNotFound, Best of DreamNotFound AU's





	1. BURNT NORTON - the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves

**Author's Note:**

> wormweeb and dreamwasfound on tumblr said dark academia george and here i am ….
> 
> If dream, george, or sapnap change their minds on fic I will delete this! and i did my research to make sure that everyone in this fic was cool with being written in fic, but if anyone knows of anything different please do let me know!
> 
> some historical inaccuracies apply! please forgive me.
> 
> on the subject of trigger warnings: this will not be a fluffy fic. trigger warnings for drugs, violence, war/gore mentions, period-typical homophobia, police brutality, chronic illness, and conversion therapy. this fic will be POLITICAL. i will also post before each chapter the applicable triggers and please let me know if you would like me to add anything else as a trigger.
> 
> THERE WILL NOT BE SMUT IN THIS FIC. i do not like to write smut. this fic is labeled mature for all of the reasons listed above but not explicit because there will not be smut. they will fuck, and i will tell you when they fucked, but i will not write the fucking. 
> 
> this fic is organized into four parts, following the format of T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets: Burnt Norton, East Coker, The Dry Salvages, and Little Gidding. there will be multiple chapters in each part. you do not have to be familiar with T.S. Eliot or the Four Quartets in order to read this fic but i hope that it intrigues you enough to read the poem - it is lengthy but one of my all-time favorites and i am so excited to present this fic in conjunction with it. 
> 
> this fic will not have a sad ending. i refuse to write a sad ending. i think there’s enough of those in the world.
> 
> enormous thank yous to my scorpio betas, light and jules. thank you for being honest – you have made this fic what it is.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: Drug mentions, war mentions, loss of limb mentions. 
> 
> if you’re reading this, thank you and i love you. please enjoy.

Mulbrang College was a tiny private college nestled between Poughkeepsie, NY, and the Catskills. In the early autumn months, the air was rich with the smell of fall foliage and rain, the lush canopy of the thick trees slowly beginning to turn yellow under the fading sun. The campus was green, with wooden lawn chairs scattered carelessly over the well-maintained grass and hammocks tacked up between trees. Towering stone buildings stood proud above the students, set with thick stained glass and mossy cobblestone walkways that twisted around the trees, fat with age and sap. 

The crackle of the record player and the smooth, rich tones of the string quartet emanating from it echoed down the halls of the dormitories, the excited shouts of the first year boys ringing outside. Next door, someone was speaking loudly, and the bell rang somewhere from another building. George relaxed into his linen sheets, letting the string quartet settle into his bones as he lost himself in the rich sound and the warm music. He knew he had poems to read and books to analyze and journals and periodicals to suffer through before classes started. It wasn’t even the first day yet and he was already busy. 

Too bad; the assignments would have to wait. He’d missed it here. This summer, he’d stayed in quiet Albany instead of going back to Philadelphia and his family home. His parents had gone on a summer-long vacation instead, taken a boat across the Atlantic to visit his ailing grandmother in London, and Sapnap had been kind enough to offer his family’s apartment last minute. George’s friend Eret, who lived in New York City, had offered his apartment as well but Albany was closer to Mulbrang, and George loved coming back to a quiet campus, swinging in one of the hammocks, reading a book in one of the lawn chairs. Albany had been fun too, boating by the docks and visiting the gardens. But Mulbrang had been the first place George had felt welcomed, had felt like himself. He liked coming back.

That wasn’t to say he hadn’t visited Eret in New York. Eret had been one of his only childhood friends to consistently keep in touch with him and George would have been a disgraceful friend if he hadn’t gone to see him. However much he liked Albany, he liked New York even more. The constant motion of the city, the people, the sights. The air was murky and dingy, the sewers disgusting and smelly, and he’d loved it. Eret had taken him to visit the history museums, their loafers quietly squeaking on the marble floors, sleeves rolled up and hands in pockets. 

A creak on the floor brought him back as the door opened and George sat up, unable to help the enormous smile that spread across his face. “Sapnap!”

“George!” Sapnap said, dropping his luggage and rushing forward to grip George in a crushing hug. “I missed you!”

“Sapnap – thank you _so_ , so much for letting me stay at your home,” George blurted out. “I really mean it, I can’t thank you enough.”

“It’s not a problem, man.” Sapnap released him but kept his hands on George’s shoulders. His dark eyes were honest. “I told you, you needed a place to stay. Of course I was gonna help out.”

George crossed his legs under him. “I still don’t know how to show my appreciation.”

Sapnap raised his hands in a truce. “Just keep the room clean this year. Y’know? Just – keep it clean.” 

“I keep it clean,” George protested weakly.

“You _absolutely_ do not,” Sapnap said. “The room. Last year.” He stared George directly in the eyes and exaggerated each word. “It. Was. An. Embarrassment.”

“It was not that bad.”

“The apple juice was growing moldy. You had an apple juice on your desk and when I opened the lid it was alive.” Sapnap tightened his headband and flicked his hair out of his eyes. “You _cannot_ argue with me.”

George couldn’t argue with him, so he changed the subject. “You’re going to get yelled at for your headband.” 

“Maybe I will,” Sapnap said. “It’s no worse than you getting suspended for wearing that sign that said… what was it again?” He was grinning viciously.

George threw his hands up. “That was a peaceful protest! You went to _all that effort_ to replace the seat of Professor Brown’s chair with _eggs_ and make it look normal.”

“Yes, and that was _incredibly_ funny. Didn’t you see the look on his face?”

George sighed. And grinned. “I did. It was funny.”

“That’s correct,” Sapnap said. “So I think that this year, me wearing a headband against the dress code should probably be the least of your concerns.” He glanced at George, lounging with his back against the headboard, and swung his suitcase up onto his bed. “Help me unpack, George.”

He was a dickhead. Why had George ever decided to room with him again? “Fine. What do you need help with?”

They worked to the sounds of the string quartet for a while, Sapnap quietly pointing George to where he wanted everything. Slowly, the room began to fill up with his stuff. 

“Listen,” Sapnap said out of the blue, “Dream’s coming over tonight and we’re gonna smoke and hang out and if you’re not too busy doing – god knows what, fuckin’ homework or something, I really want you to hang out with us. You _have_ to meet Dream.”

“Oh, _Dream_ ,” George said. “I have to meet _Dream_ , because who doesn’t know _Dream_ ? _Dream sent me a letter, it’s just like the old days! Dream’s so amazing, he just went to Alaska! Dream sent me a sculpture of my dick –_ ”

“Shut UP,” Sapnap said. “This summer was _far out_ . We went to the _Grand Canyon_ , we went to Yellowstone, we tried to surf. You’ll hear about it tonight.”

“You _tried_ to surf?” George asked. “Did you succeed?”

Sapnap threw a pair of boxers at his head and George shrieked and swatted them away.

“Here’s the thing,” Sapnap said. “I think the two of you are gonna get along great. I just, uh, I have to tell you something before you meet him.”

George looked up at the suddenly hesitant tone of voice. “What?” he asked.

Sapnap sighed. “He’s – he’s not gonna agree with you. About Vietnam.”

George tensed. Since Sapnap’s brother Bad had come home from his tour with an honorable discharge and only one arm, Sapnap had been completely unwilling to talk about Vietnam. He left the classroom if a professor brought it up. He’d asked George not to bring the protests back to their dorm room. He didn’t even talk about Bad except to read George parts of his letters.

“He’s pro-war?” George asked carefully.

“His parents, they’re… they told him what they wanted him to hear for a long time. It’s not his fault and it doesn’t make him a bad person, it just – ”

“It _does_ make him a bad person,” George said. “He’s _your_ best friend and he’s still pro-war? Has he even _met_ Bad?”

“Don’t bring Bad into this,” Sapnap snarled. “I’m _done_ talking.”

George apologized.

Sapnap was standing with his back to George, his shoulders slowly moving with his breath.

“Sorry, Sapnap.”

Sapnap sighed and turned back to George, sliding down the bedframe to sit on the floor. “No, it’s okay. You gotta understand, Dream was the _only person_ I had for such a long time. We met through a pen pal program when I was like, eight, and he was seven. It was this thing through my parent’s league society where if you.” He dropped his head back and closed his eyes. “If you were above a certain tax bracket, your kids could write to other kids through this program. So they had friends that were like them.”

George stared. “Jesus Christ.”

“I know, okay?” Sapnap said. “I know how it sounds, but you _know_ how my parents are. Writing to him when I was young, I mean, it was a best friend handed to me on a silver platter. We had the same interests, we were the same age. When we finally met, it was almost a decade later. And he was still my best friend. And _now_ he’s coming to Mulbrang even though his parents wanted him to go to, to, Harvard, and Yale, but he’s coming here. I know, I know that you guys aren’t going to agree on the war. But I really want you to get along. Just – try, maybe? For me?”

He was chewing on his lower lip and his eyes were wide and honest. George sighed.

“I’ll give him a chance.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Sapnap said. “George. _Thank you_.” He stood. “Pick up my boxers, please.”

“Ew,” George said. “You pick them up.”

Two hours later, Sapnap’s headband was stained through with sweat, but he was unpacked. George took a second to take in the room.

It was small to begin with. The beds were pressed against the corners, ceiling slanted over the headboards. A window cut into the wall had enough space on the ledge for George to curl up and read; it was one of the first things he’d noticed when he moved in. Two desks sat at the base of the beds and symmetrical closets were built into the walls next to them. George had his books stacked underneath his bed, a row of neat sweater vests and cream button-downs hanging up in his closet, pants stuffed awkwardly in the tiny dresser. Sapnap had already hammered several nails into the walls, uncaring; a row of white headbands and beaded necklaces hung from them. He kept his clothes in boxes under his bed and his desk was almost empty, unlike George’s. Instead of keeping his pants or shirts in his dresser, George had watched him dump all of his socks in a drawer and then bury a baggie of weed and cigarette papers in their midst.

(“You won’t tell, will ya, Georgie?” he’d asked.

George wanted to smoke that weed more than anything in the entire world but he wasn’t about to admit it. “I won’t tell,” he said. “Is that what we’re going to be smoking tonight?”

“Whoa, who’s this _we_?” Sapnap had asked. At the stricken look on George’s face, he amended, giggling: “Yes, George, if you want some, you can have some.”)

“I’m going to take a nap,” Sapnap said, clambering onto his bed. “Wake me up whenever Dream gets here.”

“When is Dream supposed to get here?” George asked. 

“I dunno. Wake me up when he does. Not too hard to understand.”

George rolled his eyes and sat down at his desk and decided to get the periodicals out of the way. 

  1. **_President Johnson on Vietnam_** **.**



_“This evening I came here to speak to you about Vietnam…_

_“[Vietnam] is the arena where Communist expansionism is most aggressively at work in the world today—where it is crossing international frontiers in violation of international agreements; where it is killing and kidnaping; where it is ruthlessly attempting to bend free people to its will…_

_“Is the aggression a threat… to the United States of America and to the peace and security of the entire world of which we in America are a very vital part?”_

George sat back in his uncomfortable desk chair, grinding his teeth. It was obvious what stance his Current Events professor was going to take on the war in Vietnam, and he was already fed up with it. People could say all they wanted that the US hadn’t been interfering for too long a time, but they had. What did they think interfering meant? Killing innocent people? Destroying villages and cities? Guess what.

The anger swirled in George’s chest and he leaned over the transcription of the speech again, pencil gripped so tight he thought he might break it. 

_“‘We are not going to withdraw from that effort. In my opinion, for us to withdraw from that effort would mean a collapse not only of South Vietnam, but Southeast Asia. So we are going to stay there,’ said President Kennedy.”_

George scribbled in the margins: _enforce US imperialism/capitalism overseas – civilian casualties ≠ “collapse?”_

He kept reading. 

_“… your American President cannot tell you—with certainty—that a Southeast Asia dominated by Communist .power would bring a third world war much closer to terrible reality… I am not prepared to risk the security—indeed, the survival—of this American Nation on mere hope and wishful thinking.”_

**_PROPAGANDA_ ** **,** George wrote, and the tip of his pencil broke off. 

He stuffed the speech back into its folder and shook his head. Maybe he shouldn’t have registered for the Current Events class. There was still time to drop it. He could always replace it with a different political class that would still fit the requirements for his anthropology major. Maybe a class on Ancient Greco-Roman politics. Sapnap was majoring in archaeology; maybe he could offer a couple of ideas. Now _that_ sounded appealing. George made a mental note to look for something. Lyndon “Bitch” Johnson would have to wait until another day, when George could keep his composure and not want to punch him in his fucking face.

He turned to his poetry reading instead. He’d been planning on saving it for later, as a special treat. Maybe at some point when he was alone, when he could put on the Beethoven quartets that Eliot had used as inspiration, really try to empathize with the emotions that he was trying to convey. It had only been a year and his death still felt raw.

T.S. Eliot was the lynchpin to George’s love of poetry. When he was 14, his mother had dragged him to a poetry reading hosted by her women’s society. None of the other poetry there had been any good, but at the very end, Eliot had taken the stage. His dry voice was off-putting, his eyes heavy and glasses thick, stage presence negligible. He was there by the sheer grace of God, critically acclaimed at the height of his career, talent, and fame. Essays and books were being written about his poetry, analyzing it, picking it apart word by word. George hadn’t known any of that, but he didn’t have to. He was drawn in all the same. 

“ _Time and the bell have buried the day,_ _  
_ _The black cloud carries the sun away._ _  
_ _Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis_ _  
_ _Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray_ _  
_ _Clutch and cling?_

_Chill_ _  
_ _Fingers of yew be curled_ _  
_ _Down on us? After the kingfisher’s wing_ _  
_ _Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still_ _  
_ _At the still point of the turning world._ ”

His mother had tried to explain the meaning, afterwards. Something about God. George hadn’t been listening to her – he hadn’t heard God. He’d heard humanity.

By now, he’d already read the _Four Quartets_ over and over again. His copy was sitting somewhere under his bed, marked up and scribbled in and raged upon. The book sitting on his desk was a different edition, clean and crisp and a little beat up, but unmarked, assigned by his professor. He began to read.

George was not one to _devour_ his literature or skim it. He liked to read slowly, carefully, tasting every word as if it was a new dish, a new flavor on his palette. And _Four Quartets_ was a ten-course meal. It took him half an hour simply to finish carefully, slowly, reading the first quartet, and even after that, he had to sit back and take a walk. 

_But to what purpose_  
_Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves_ _  
_ I do not know. 

He closed the door as quietly as he could on its creaky hinges, trying not to wake Sapnap, and shuffled out. He was still wearing his partially-unbuttoned shirt, a little sweaty from helping Sapnap unpack, but it was okay. Most people hadn’t moved in yet, and it was starting to get dark. The students that were already here were probably in the mess hall, getting dinner.

“ _At the still point of the turning world,_ ” George murmured to himself, opening the door to the lounge at the end of the hallway. The lamps on the wooden tables were all switched off and George walked to the windows, peering out at the sunset over the Catskills. The latch opened with a quiet creak and he pushed the window open, breathing the fresh August breeze. 

“ _Neither flesh nor fleshless,_ ” he continued, mostly to himself, partly to see how much he had memorized. “ _Neither from nor towards; at the still point –_ ”

“ _There the dance is!_ ” completed an excited voice behind him, and George whirled, embarrassed.

Either the man had snuck in or George hadn’t noticed him. He had long, messy blond hair and was wearing grimy gray trousers. A pair of circular gold glasses were perched on his face and there was what looked like dried clay smeared on his hair, above his ear. He was seated at one of the desks at the far corner of the room, the lamp off, a small book laid out in front of him. “It’s _Burnt Norton,_ right?” he asked, his eyes wide. “I recognized it when you were reciting it. I have to read it for a class.”

“Yeah?” George said. He looked out the window at the sunset and then back at the man at the desk. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“I don’t understand poetry,” the man said. “It just doesn’t click.”

“Why are you taking a poetry class, then?” George asked. He closed the window. 

“So that I can understand poetry,” the man said. “Duh.” His face creased in a smile. “It’s also an English requirement and I’ve read enough Wilde to last a lifetime, so poetry it was.”

“Wilde could last many lifetimes and beyond,” George protested. “I never get sick of Dorian Gray.”

The man shrugged, his eyes narrowing. He leaned back in his chair and examined George. George suddenly felt like a specimen under a microscope – pinned, flayed, exposed. “We all know what happens in the end,” the man said. He broke his gaze and looked down at the book in front of him. “Poetry is always a surprise to me. Even if I’ve read it before.”

“It’s really almost the same as reading anything,” George said. He sat down at the desk next to the man. He was warm, the heat from his body seeping into George’s side. “One thing leads to another. It circles the point it’s trying to make and asks you to connect the dots.” He held out a hand. “May I?”

The man looked startled, and then handed over the _Quartets_. His fingertips brushed against George’s.

“I mean, he tells you, right there, right at the beginning,” George said. He opened the book up to the first page and pressed his finger to the words. “Here: _Time present and time past / Are both perhaps present in time future / And time future contained in time past –_ and it’s like in math, like the commutative property: _If all time is eternally present –_ look, if _present_ in its use in line 2 means that the current moments _and_ the past moments both exist in the future, and the future is in the past as well, then the use of _present_ implies that all time is happening _now_. It’s a double meaning.” 

George paused to take a breath, and continued. “ _All time is unredeemable_ – everything that has happened or will happen is set in stone. What about hypotheticals? He sets up the poem for you right there. And then it’s your job to relate the rest of this section to what you could consider his thesis statement at the beginning.” He leaned in, dragging his finger down the page. “Here is where he dives into the hypothetical. The rose garden, what could have been, and he acknowledges the uselessness of it. But Eliot, he – he was very religious, so you have to look beyond the analogies in the poem and – ”

George cut himself off and stared, hard, at the page. He removed his hand from the book and adjusted the collar of his shirt. He looked up.

The man’s lips were curled into a smile. “Are you done?” he asked.

“I’m done,” George said. This close to him, his bright eyes held a glint that George would have recognized anywhere. “Don’t tell me that wasn’t informative.”

“It wasn’t informative,” the man said.

“You asked for help.”

“I never asked for help.”

“You said that you didn’t understand poetry. That’s you, indirectly asking for help.”

“It sounds to me like I was just trying to make conversation.” He leaned sideways in his chair, his arm draped over the back, his legs spread wide. His head was tilted to the side, collarbone exposed above his t-shirt. George let his eyes drag over him.

“What kind of conversation were you trying to make, then?” 

The man shrugged with one shoulder. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and released it, swollen and wet. “Whatever worked.”

George inhaled slowly. They were still in the clear. He could choose to move forward with this or let it simmer down and die. The moment stretched and he leaned forward. “Do you really think it’s that easy?” 

The man’s eyes narrowed and his smile stretched. “What would make it easier?”

“You could give me a name,” George said, tilting his head.

“Give _you_ a name?” the man asked. “I think I’ll call you… Sam.”

It was cheesy and dumb but it was surprising and made him laugh – the hiccupping little laugh that he hated, but the man sitting in front of him looked so pleased about it that George couldn’t bring himself to care. “What a bad joke,” he said, and the man’s face turned dumbfounded.

“What are you talking about?” he said dryly, a tinge of happiness coloring his cheeks. “That’s your name now. Unless you’d prefer a different one. Steve.”

“That’s worse.”

“Alexander.”

“Not Alex?”

“Full name. Alexander. The emperor. The _Great_.”

“I’m more like Hephaestion,” George said without thinking. 

This time it was the man’s turn to laugh, his voice tilting up at the end, eyes crinkling behind his glasses. “Okay, Hephaestion.”

“Now you know my name,” George said, teasing. “What’s yours?”

The man leaned forward, his lips parted. “Alexander.”

The door behind them opened and George jerked away. What were they doing? What were they _doing_? And in a public place?

“ _At the still point of the turning world,_ ” he blurted out, pointing desperately to _Four Quartets_ . “ _Neither flesh nor fleshless; / Neither from nor towards –_ ”

“ _At the still point, there the dance is,_ ” Alexander said, his voice low, as the boy who had just entered slammed his bag into a chair and sat with a heavy sigh. George was hyper aware of the space between him and Alexander, the vacuum that their sudden separation had created. He realized suddenly that the book wasn’t open.

“ _But neither arrest nor movement,_ ” he murmured, flushed and embarrassed and cold, Alexander’s heat no longer pressing into him. He stood, taking the _Four Quartets_. “I’ll see you around, Alexander.”

Alexander’s eyes tracked him as he stood, flicking down to the table again. His voice was thick. “Yeah. See you around. Hephaestion.”


	2. BURNT NORTON - the unseen eyebeam crossed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dream shrugged. “I made that piece for Sap over there.” He nodded his chin at Sapnap’s shelf and George looked over at the familiar piece. It had been in their room last year and he’d always liked it but had never asked after it. It was a bear, maybe eight inches tall, lovingly sculpted and detailed, fur and eyes and claws all delicately shaped out of clay. The bear was reared up on its hind legs, as if it was trying to intimidate someone, but its face wasn’t roaring, and its claws weren’t out._
> 
> _“You made that?” George asked. “It’s beautiful.”_
> 
> _“Dream said it’s supposed to be a representation of me.” Sapnap picked the bear up off the shelf and turned it over in his hands, weighing it. “He thinks I’m really fucking ugly.”_
> 
> _“I think you’re beautiful,” Dream said solemnly, holding out his hand for the bear. “I think bears are also beautiful.” Sapnap handed it over._
> 
> _“It’s a protector,” George said. “It’s not attacking, it’s defending. It’s standing its ground.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy thursday! happy update day! i wanted to update later but my laptop charger seems to be broken so i am updating early.
> 
> first of all, thank you SO MUCH to my scorpios, jules and light, for all your help and for keeping my writing honest! i also want to extend an enormous thank you to everyone who bookmarked and left kudos and left comments!!!! every time i got a notification of a new comment i almost cried! thank you for your enthusiasm!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: drug use (weed) and mentions of hallucinogenic use (not depicted.) War and weaponry mentions.
> 
> please enjoy the chapter!

George slowly turned the handle as the door creaked open, peering into the room to see Sapnap still asleep, splayed out over the sheets with one arm hanging off the bed. He shut the door and took his homework from his desk. 

Sapnap mumbled something and shifted. “Dream?” He opened one eye.

“Just me, sorry,” George said, hoisting himself onto the windowsill. “Dream’s not here yet.” He reached behind him and pushed open the window, the cool twilight breeze ruffling his hair.

“Disappointing.” Sapnap sat up, rubbing his bleary eyes with one hand. “Dude, are you kicking your feet?”

George looked down to where his feet were swinging from the ledge, a foot away from the ground. “Yes. What about it?”

Sapnap shrugged and turned so his legs hung off the bed. He kicked them a little. “Have you been here the whole time?”

“Nah,” George said. “Johnson made me take a break.”

“Johnson can’t  _ make  _ you do anything,” Sapnap said airily. 

“Technically,” George grimaced, “he  _ can _ .”

“Like what?”

“Arrest me,” George said.

“You’ve never been arrested by the feds.”

“It was the federalized police force.” Sapnap squinted at him, so George clarified: “The NYPD  _ had  _ federal authority.”

“What a convoluted way to get arrested.”

“We live in a convoluted world.”

He pulled his legs up so he was tucked into the window area, pushing his pencil behind his ear and opening his folder to the LBJ speech again, determined to finish it by the end of the evening.

He finished it up faster than he expected and moved on to the second reading, an article from the Times about the military industrial complex. The largest weapons manufacturing company in the world, the SMPC (or the Southern Manufacturing Production Company) had been selling weaponry to the US military to use in Vietnam – new ways to fight. “Unconventional warfare,” the article called it. Most of the old companies had made the most profit off of brute force weaponry, like tanks and artillery, but the SMPC had found their niche in counterinsurgency.

_ Counterinsurgency. _ George scoffed. The US had supported the Vietnamese in their struggle against France only a decade ago. Wasn’t that revolution, wasn’t that  _ insurgency _ ? Bullshit. 

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. He’d been protesting for years, ever since Eret moved to America four years ago and introduced George to his First Amendment rights. It was incomparable, the raw truth out in the open, the focused sense of rage as he screamed in tandem with hundreds of other people.

Eret had introduced George to other sides of New York as well. Dancing, low lights, slow smiles and a second look back. Crystals and jewels and red lipstick. George had a clip-on earring hidden in his mattress, where nobody would ever find it. 

Someone knocked on the door, and George glanced up as Sapnap’s eyes lit up and he struggled to get out of his covers and got stuck. “Dream!” he bellowed. “Dream! I’m coming!”

“Come faster!” a voice outside the door demanded. “Now! Sapnap,  _ now _ !”

Sapnap untangled himself and almost fell out of his bed in excitement. “ _ DREEEEAAM! _ ”

“If you don’t come and get me  _ right now, _ I’m  _ leav – _ ”

Sapnap yanked open the door and leapt into the arms of the man standing outside it, sending him staggering backwards, out of the doorway and out of George’s vision. He slowly uncurled himself and sat forward, letting his feet dangle off of the windowsill, nervously swinging his feet back and forth. He hated being introduced to friends of friends. He never knew how to act, and there were always inside jokes. Sapnap and Dream had gone on a  _ cross-country road trip _ . Fuck, tonight was going to be awkward. 

Sapnap returned, the man who was ostensibly Dream in tow. “George, this is Dream. Dream, George.”

Oh.

_ Oh. _

“Hi, George.” So this was Dream. So that had been  _ Dream. _ Oh, God. Beautiful long hair, the clay still smeared in it, the glasses and dirty trousers, the glittering eyes and the full lips stretched in a smile. George’s stomach turned. 

“Hi, Dream,” George said, extending his hand. Dream moved forward and shook it. He was warm. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

“You too,” Dream said. 

They stared at each other for a long moment. It had been dark in the lounge, but the tall lamp in the dorm room was bright and warm, and Dream positively  _ glowed _ in the light. It caught on the little flyaway hairs around his face and glinted in his eyes. George’s heart was going to pound out of his chest. Sapnap was going to hear. He was going to know. Oh, God.

“You have something,” George muttered, gesturing behind his ear. “Something. Behind your ear.”

“Oh.” Dream blinked and grabbed at his hair. “Shit. Do either of you have a mirror?”

“In the closet,” George said. “Over there.”

“Bro, it’s two weeks until classes and you found a sculpture studio  _ already _ ?” Sapnap asked. “Those things just pop up for you, huh?”

“You just gotta know where to look,” Dream said. “I’m taking a class. It’s just to get the credit.”

Sapnap pitched his voice up several octaves. “ _ It’s just to get the credit _ . Why the hell are you majoring in business anyway?”

“My parents wanted me to – ”

“Fuck  _ that _ . You said you would, you promised me you would go for sculpture!”

“I changed my mind.” It was short and clipped, as Dream roughly scratched the dried clay out of his hair. 

“Did you want to do sculpture?” George’s mouth asked, completely at odds with his brain, desperately scrambling to take the words back in.

Dream turned and looked at him, intense eyes pinning him where he was. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“Doesn’t it?” George said, crossing his arms. “Are you good at it?”

“He’s  _ great _ ,” Sapnap jumped in. “He’s a fucking prodigy.”

Dream was glaring at Sapnap, his cheeks flushed. 

“See?” Sapnap said. “He’s not denying it. He  _ knows  _ he’s good, look at his face!”

“What have you made?” George asked. “I’d love to see it. I’m actually usually not that into visual art but I feel like I could really like sculpture.”

Dream shrugged. “Some stuff. I made that piece for Sap over there.” He nodded his chin at Sapnap’s shelf and George looked over at the familiar piece. It had been in their room last year and he’d always liked it but had never asked after it. It was a bear, maybe eight inches tall, lovingly sculpted and detailed, fur and eyes and claws all delicately shaped out of clay. The bear was reared up on its hind legs, as if it was trying to intimidate someone, but its face wasn’t roaring, and its claws weren’t out. 

“You made that?” George asked. “It’s beautiful.”

“Dream said it’s supposed to be a representation of me.” Sapnap picked the bear up off the shelf and turned it over in his hands, weighing it. “He thinks I’m really fucking ugly.”

“I think you’re beautiful,” Dream said solemnly, holding out his hand for the bear. “I think bears are also beautiful.” Sapnap handed it over.

“It’s a protector,” George said. “It’s not attacking, it’s defending. It’s standing its ground.”

Dream looked up at him from the bear, his eyes wide. 

Sapnap raised an eyebrow. “Awh, George, am I your protector?” He reached over, messing up George’s hair, and George ducked away. 

“No!” George protested, as Sapnap swung at him again and he jumped up on the bed to try to get away. “No, now you’re fucking – AAH!! – fucking attacking me, get away!” Sapnap leapt onto the bed after him and George made a run for it, aiming for his desk, and tripped over his covers. He landed at Dream’s feet with a thud and Sapnap immediately kneeled on top of him.

“I protect George from all the dangers of this world!” Sapnap proclaimed, his fist raised in the air in triumph. “Nothing can stand against my righteous defense!”

“You  _ are _ the dangers of this world,” George grumbled, shaking him off, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks as Dream watched them, wheezing with laughter. “Fuck off, Sapnap.”

“Keep the room clean, or there’s more where that came from,” Sapnap said, opening up his sock drawer. “Who wants to pot some smoke?”

Five minutes later, there was a haze in the air and George coughed smoke out of the window. “That’s strong,” he said.

“It’s the good stuff.” Dream held out his hand for the blunt and George passed it over. “Where’d you get this, Sap?”

Sapnap grinned and leaned against his bed. “I have my sources.”

Dream took a long pull from the blunt and George watched as the smoke trickled from his lips, curling into the air. His hair was pulled back from his face now, and as he tilted his head, George’s gaze was caught by the smooth skin on his neck, turning into fine hairs at the base of his skull.

He blew the smoke into George’s face and George started and coughed. “What the hell,” he choked, waving a hand in front of his face. “Dream!”

“Just wanted to wake you up,” Dream said. “Let me guess, marijuana makes you sleepy.”

“Oh, you’ll  _ see _ high George in a few minutes,” Sapnap answered for him. “It just takes a second to get there.”

George could already feel the high seeping into his bones, in his legs and the bottom of his ribcage. “Fuck off.”

Sapnap winked. “Gladly.” He took a hit and blew out the window in one thin stream, offering the blunt to George. 

George closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the smoke burning a little inside his mouth. He tilted his head up and let the smoke sit, his mouth open and the vapor trailing out. He exhaled slowly, slowly, and the smoke drifted towards the ceiling and dissipated. When he turned to offer the blunt to Dream, he wasn’t looking, his eyes cast away towards the ground, eyelashes light against his cheeks.

“Dream,” George said.

Dream looked up and wordlessly accepted the blunt, which was now getting to be pretty stubby. He took a rough pull and coughed, the smoke bursting in the direction of the window. Offered it to Sapnap.

George’s knees felt good. Actually, all of his joints felt loose and wiggly. “I feel nice,” he said. “My knees feel nice.”

“I  _ love _ high George.” Sapnap took another long drag. “Next hit’s the last one.”

George nodded at Dream. “If you want the last hit, you can have it.”

Dream shook his head. “I’m recovering from my last hit.”

George was just going to be super stoned tonight. That was fine. He inhaled the last of the pot, the blunt a hot brand against his lips. “Thanks.” 

“Guys, I gotta pee,” Sapnap said. “I’ll be right back.” He pushed away from the wall and headed into the hallway. “Don’t miss me too much!”

The door slammed shut behind him. George looked over at Dream, but it was like looking at the sun. Too much. He had to look away.

The silence was horrific, was deafening. All of George’s words were stuck inside his throat, lodged like a rock, and there was nothing he could do to get past it. The high was seeping into his skin and he felt loose and stretched too thin. His heart pounded.

“I like the bear,” he said.

Dream’s head turned so fast George heard his neck crack. “What?”

“I like the bear,” George repeated, and pointed at the sculpture, sitting back in its rightful place on the bookshelf. “It’s nice. It’s very detailed.”

“Thanks.” Dream looked over at the bear and George took the second to take in his profile before he had to stop looking. 

“I meant what I said, you know,” George added. “About it being a protector.”

Dream shrugged. He was still looking at the bear. George wanted to make him look back. Look at  _ George _ . “You were right.”

“It’s all of the literary analysis,” George scoffed. “It comes in handy sometimes.”

“It doesn’t sound very practical.” Dream’s voice was dismissive, but a smile was beginning to show in his cheeks. 

“To you, maybe, Mister Sculptor,” George pushed, trying to gain an inch, the words spilling from his mouth before he could take them back. “But the power of literary analysis means that I can see people’s thoughts. Read the subtext in their words. Know what they really want to say, even when they’re not saying it.”

“You can, huh?” Dream looked back. His fingers tapped against the bedframe in quick succession.  _ 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4.  _

“You have my book,” he said. “Hephaestion.”

Something warm sparked, low in George’s gut.

“I’m back,” Sapnap sang, the squeak of the door alerting them to his presence. “What did I miss?”

“George was just saying how you’re a terrible roommate and he hates your guts,” Dream said.

“That’s a fucking lie,” Sapnap said. “George loves me. Right, George?”

“I do.” George wanted to die. “I think you’re the best roommate I’ve ever had.”

“I will never say the same for you.” Sapnap threw himself onto his bed and kneed Dream in the back. “You suck.”

“Ow,” Dream muttered. He hoisted himself onto the bed and toed off his shoes, crossing his legs. His socks were mismatched. “Budge over, fucker.” 

Sapnap spread his arms and placed one leg in Dream’s lap. “No. This is my bed, my rules. You want in, you gotta play  _ my  _ game.”

“Oh, come on.” Dream gave George a long-suffering look and George giggled, hopping onto his own bed and curling his legs up underneath him. 

Sapnap slapped his thighs and almost hit Dream. “Okay. Dream. I told George we’d tell him everything about the road trip this summer. Where do you want to start?”

Dream shrugged. “I mean, you sent him enough postcards. Where didn’t you send a postcard from?”

“Literally nowhere,” Sapnap said, and George echoed him.

“I got maybe a postcard every other day,” he said. “One time, the postal service must have been backed up because I didn’t get one for a week and then I got three all at once.” 

“I like keeping my friends updated.” Sapnap pulled himself into a sitting position, keeping his leg hooked around Dream’s. “Okay. George. We started at Dream’s house in Florida. Ugly, hideous house. Looks like a piece of shit. Never seen an uglier house. If I’d sent you a postcard from Dream’s house, your eyes would have bled.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”

“People don’t believe me when I tell the truth,” Sapnap sighed. “Fine. We – ”

Dream put his hand in Sapnap’s face, covering his mouth and tapping his forehead. “Tell him about Arizona. Arizona was cool.”

Sapnap bit his hand. “Arizona was  _ the shit _ . We tripped acid in Arizona, ‘cause we went hiking near Sedona, where all the red rock is, and we were the only people for  _ miles _ . It was like being on Mars or something and we were just tripping, catching some rays. We got so sunburnt.”

“Oh, how many drugs  _ did  _ you guys do?” George asked, leaning back on his bed. “Your postcards were completely incoherent at points.” He wiggled his legs, his feet tingling with the high.

“Oh my god,  _ so _ many.” Sapnap started ticking them off on his fingers. “Pot, obviously, we smoked like, every night, acid, we did shrooms in Washington state, did molly at yellowstone, did – ”

George raised his eyebrows. “So you gave yourselves brain damage.” 

“Not necessarily. I like to look at it as worldly experiences,” Sapnap explained, putting a hand on Dream’s shoulder. “Right, Dream?”

“Absolutely,” Dream concurred, nodding his head. “And for the record, these were top-of-the-line. The hallucinatory gods. Fuckin’ electric.”

“Nothing less than the best.”

“Nothing less. Although we did have a bad trip at Glacier Park.”

“That wasn’t the mushrooms though.” Sapnap’s face twisted. “That was just. The day.”

“The weather was shit. There were too many  _ people _ . We did feed the birds some of your bread. And they sat on our hands.”

Sapnap gasped and scrambled off the bed, searching beneath it. “Dream! I almost forgot! I got the pictures developed.”

“You did?” Dream asked, his voice going high and soft, an enormous smile spreading across his face. It lit up his eyes. 

“I did! I have that picture of you with the birds all over you! You look like a nature god.” He pulled out a thick folder. “Holy shit, remember how many fucking rolls we had to buy?”

“Oh my  _ god _ ,” Dream groaned, dragging out his vowels. “So many.”

“It was worth it to get the color pictures,” Sapnap said, flipping through the photos, “but – oh! Here it is!” He leaned in to show the photograph to Dream, knocking their heads together. George wanted to see. George wanted to see so bad.

Dream didn’t say anything, but he was smiling. “Show George,” he said, and Sapnap leaned forward and handed the picture to George, who took it gingerly.

Dream was as beautiful in the photograph as he was in real life, the smile on his face radiant even though the sky in the background was cloudy. He was looking at small sparrows that were perched on both of his arms, extended forward towards the camera, and his loose hair was blowing in his face. 

“I was pretty blasted in that photo.” Dream shook his head. “I mean, the whole day was downhill from there – ”

“Because one of the birds pooped on your jacket?”

Dream looked down and closed his eyes. “That was the start of it, yes.”

“I wanna hear about the two of you trying to surf,” George said. “I was  _ promised _ a funny story about surfing.” He handed the photo back even though his whole body screamed for him to keep it.

“I’m amazing, I’m very good at surfing,” Dream said. “I tried to teach Sapnap but he’s never been to a beach in his life – ”

“Not true – ”

“And he has no knowledge of the water, of the strength of will and courage and fortitude it takes to be master of the ocean.”

“Shut the fuck up, you fucking bitch,” Sapnap said. “You bitch.”

“I have photographic  _ evidence _ .” Dream nodded at the pictures. “I took a picture of you falling.”

“I didn’t get it developed. I asked them not to.”

“You wasted a picture?”

“ _ You  _ wasted the picture! You took it!”

“You destroyed a priceless moment in history?”

“I had to preserve my dignity.”

“ _ You– _ ”

Dream punched Sapnap, right in the arm, and Sapnap retaliated with a kick to his ribs, and Dream gave a yell and fell on top of him, trying to get him in a headlock. George leaned back and watched with an eyebrow raised. The high was really kicking in and his mind was starting to wander.

All he’d meant to do was take the  _ Four Quartets _ . That meant that he would have had to see Dream,  _ Alexander _ , again in order to give him his book back. In George’s mind, things were all going to unfold from there. Watching Sapnap and Dream tussle, he realized that there was now a very large wrench in his plans. 

Sapnap didn’t know anything about George – at least, George was  _ pretty  _ sure he didn’t know anything. He’d been away for a weekend a year ago and George was fairly competent at finding sad, repressed tops to come over for an evening and then fuck off into oblivion, so it hadn’t been a problem. (Cleaning up afterwards had been the problem.) But Sapnap had never changed his tune, had never treated George any differently. Had never found out.

George leaned against the wall and let his eyes trace over Dream, who now had his feet in Sapnap’s face, trying to push him away. The million-dollar-question: did Sapnap know about Dream? 

“George!” Sapnap was gasping, howling with laughter. “George, don’t just sit there. Come help me.  _ Help me! _ ” 

“No, I think I’m good over here,” George said, staying put and watching as Dream pushed Sapnap halfway off the bed, his head and torso hanging over the edge.

“Admit defeat!”

“No!”

“Surrender.” Dream pushed Sapnap further off the bed.

“ _ Never _ ,” Sapnap spit. “I’d rather die.”

Dream’s mouth split into a grin. “Then die,” he said, and released his hold on Sapnap. 

Sapnap slowly slid to the ground, his mouth set in a grim line. Lying supine on the floor, he turned his head to look up at George. “You’re my only friend now.”

George was studying his thumb. “You know what’s interesting?”

“What’s interesting, my one and only friend? My bestie? My beautiful egg head man?”

George held up his thumb and pinched the bone. “Look. This part, below the knuckle, is thinner than the knuckle, and the end of the thumb is rounded, but it’s got every width that’s smaller than the knuckle, which is the thickest part of the thumb. Which means that somewhere on the end of your thumb is the exact same width as the bone. You know?”

Sapnap and Dream were very, very quiet.

George looked up at them. “You  _ know _ ? Sapnap, you understand, right?”

Sapnap shook his head.

“Dream?” George asked, gazing at him pleadingly. Dream was trying to keep himself from smiling, his mouth contorted in a thin line. “Please say you know what I’m talking about.”

“I know what you’re talking about, George,” Dream said, consoling. “I know exactly what you’re talking about.”

George let himself fall over and lie sideways on the bed. He nuzzled his head into the pillow. “Thank you for understanding. I’m gonna… I’m gonna close my eyes for a little bit. Just a little bit.” 

“Goodnight George,” Sapnap said, his voice already faint.

George shook his head. “It’s not goodnight. It’s… just resting…”

He woke up hours later to a cool breeze on his face and the sound of quiet shuffling. He cracked open an eye to see and it barely helped; the moon was a sliver in the cloudy sky and the lights on campus barely reached George’s room on the 6th floor. Just dark, moving in the dark. 

_ And the bird called, _ his brain supplied,  _ in response to / the unheard music hidden in the shrubbery, / and the unseen eyebeam crossed… _

When he heard feet hit the floor and saw light flicker over Sapnap’s sleeping face, he realized that Dream was still in the room with them. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. George wondered what time it was, but his voice was still in the thick of waking up and it wouldn’t speak.

Dream padded across the floor and George closed his eyes halfway as he slowly opened that loud fucking door, the light spreading in from the hallway. For a second, he stood there, silhouetted. 

The door shut with a click.

George was curious to check. He pulled off his covers and crawled to where his bag lay at the foot of his bed, where he’d put Dream’s copy of the  _ Four Quartets _ , and felt around inside.

There it was. George smiled, pulled back his covers, and went back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dead poets society ran so i could limp
> 
> chapter three will be posted next thursday and it's already about 6,000 words long, so enjoy the short chapters while you can, i guess!
> 
> as always if you liked it please leave kudos or a comment and tell me what you think! you can also talk to me on my tumblr @princedemeter! see you in a week <3


	3. BURNT NORTON - words strain, crack and sometimes break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We can talk about Vietnam.” Dream drained his water glass and slammed it down. “We can have a civil discussion but if you’re just going to sit here and insult my family, that’s another thing entirely.”_
> 
> _“Civil discussion? You want to have a civil discussion?” Wilbur laughed. “A civil discussion with the son of the richest weapons manufacturer this side of the equator? I don’t fucking think – ”_
> 
> _“Shut up.”_
> 
> _Sapnap’s eyes were hollowed holes in his face. Wilbur, his words choked off, looked stricken. Dream just looked sad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy update day! yes, i changed the summary. yes, it’s because i’m wondering if using their actual names in the summary will attract more attention. yes, i want more attention. speaking of which, if you haven’t read my newest fic, dream with bucket what will he do, go check it out! it’s only 1.5k words and it’s pure fluff. 
> 
> anyway, thank you ENDLESSLY to my scorpios, light and jules!!! happy birthdays to the both of you!! this chapter would not be nearly as good without your help. i want to express my appreciation and love for everyone that has come to my tumblr inbox to tell me that they like this fic, every time i get an ask like that my heart swells 3 times its size. thank you all so much for your love and enthusiasm and get ready for a lengthy chapter 4 next thursday!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: weed usage, mentions of tear-gassing, mentions of war and weaponry, mentions of disease. 
> 
> enjoy!

The two weeks before school were filled with warm days and cool nights, the students standing on the edge of a precipice, waiting to step off the edge. George found himself laughing until he couldn’t breathe, lying on the lawns until the moon came out and goosebumps crawled up his arms, going stargazing wrapped in a sweater and a fluffy blanket that Dream had brought from his room. Sapnap lay next to them and pointed out the constellations, named the myths that had followed them. 

Dream. He came over to their room almost every night, curled up on Sapnap’s bed, sitting cross-legged on the floor, taking George’s seat on the windowsill. George pretended like he minded, always protesting and kicking up a fuss. He called fives on everything, his bed, the windowsill, his chair, his desk, and came back to Dream perched delicately on them like a bird, looking at George with an innocent expression.

How could he mind, when Dream went cross-eyed trying to blow his hair out of his face? How could he have ever minded seeing Dream smile a little lopsided grin, his front teeth a little big, his eyes curved into half-moons? Two shots in from Sapnap’s illicit ventures, his faint lisp was microscopically more pronounced and George melted listening to him speak. Those two weeks were filled with the warm haze of sunny August, sweaty hugs in the afternoon and the purple veneer of twilight. Brightness and squinty eyes and peals of laughter.

And then the day came when they all had to take the plunge off the precipice and begin classes.

George was right about his Current Events professor and his stance on Vietnam.  _ “We are working towards peace,” _ he’d said.  _ “This class will discuss political tactics, current weaponry, and warfare against the communist regime attempting to take control of South Asia.” _

At least George had kept his tongue, this class. _This_ class. First class of the semester. He wasn’t going to keep it together for long, not with the way that man talked. He started a letter to Eret that began: 

_ E, _

_ What do the conservatives think is happening over there? They sit at home and they write academic papers and political journals and preach with their noses up in the air about why we should EXTEND our INVOLVEMENT and don’t think about the thousands of people that are going to die because they decided that we needed to spread capitalism to all four corners of the world. It’s bullshit. I’m going to kill _

A hand slammed down on his desk, on top of the letter. “What’s up, George?”

“Nothing,” George grumbled, swatting at the hand. “Go away. I’m busy.”

“George, your diary can wait. I need your attention  _ now. _ ”

George flipped the letter over and whipped his head up to face Sapnap, inches away from his face. “It’s not a diary!”

“I don’t care what it is. I’m hungry, and you have to come with me to the mess hall.”

George glared at him. His stomach turned, empty, and he ignored it. “Well, I’m not hungry.”

“Did you eat breakfast?”

No. “Yes.”

“No, you didn’t.”

He pushed his chair back. “Well, if you’re going to call me a liar.” Maybe he did need to eat. Sapnap was good at keeping his schedule consistent and feeding himself, and George had a tendency to forget about both of those things. “I  _ guess _ I’ll come eat dinner with you.”

Dinner was atrocious. George cut his chicken into a thousand tiny pieces, checking every sliver for a hint of pink. “There is no way this is actually chicken.”

“I think it  _ technically _ is,” Sapnap said carefully. “Technically. I think.”

George almost gagged at the runny beans. “These are fucking garbage. See, this is why I don’t eat breakfast here. Can you imagine if they tried to reheat those frozen pancakes?”

Sapnap shook his head. “They do. You know, they’re kind of like really sad flavorless cookies. Should we get a hot plate for our room?” 

“I don’t really cook,” George said. 

“But at least that way you only have yourself to blame for the shitty food,” Sapnap said. “And you could make yourself tea.”

George did miss drinking a cuppa on chilly fall days. Maybe Sapnap was onto something. “What else could we make?”

“Uh,” Sapnap said. “Eggs. Pasta.”

“There’s a refrigerator in the laundry room on every floor.” Dream unexpectedly sat down next to George, who jumped and knocked over his water glass. “Jesus, George.”

“Fuck! Don’t scare me like that!” George grabbed napkins from the dispenser in the center of the table and started mopping it up. “What did you say?”

“That there’s a full-sized refrigerator in the laundry room on every floor,” Dream repeated. “If you guys don’t want to eat this shit you can always keep spare groceries there.”

“There’s a what,” Sapnap said faintly.

George stared at him. “Dream, you’re a genius.”

“You guys didn’t know about that?” Dream asked. “I moved in two weeks ago and you didn’t  _ know _ ?”

“In my defense,” George started, and then couldn’t think of a defense. “In my defense.” He pointed across the table at Sapnap, who was staring at Dream with enormous eyes. “Sapnap didn’t know either.”

“You’re both idiots.” It held no malice. “Shit. I forgot to get water. George, do you want a refill?”

“Uh, yeah,” George said absently, chasing the last grains of uncomfortably hard rice around his plate. Dream grabbed his water glass and slouched away, Sapnap’s eyes tracking him. “Thanks!”

“George! Sapnap!”

George looked up. “Wilbur!”

A bowl of soup landed on the table and Wilbur Soot tossed himself into the chair next to Sapnap, flicking his hair out of his eyes. “What’s up? How were your summers?”

“Pretty boring,” George said.

“You are a liar.” Sapnap pointed a finger at George, accusingly. He turned to Wilbur. “He was living in  _ my _ house, there’s no way anything of mine could be boring.”

“You’d be surprised.” Wilbur grinned lopsidedly. “What incredibly interesting and non-boring thing did you do this summer, Sapnap?”

“I went on a road trip across the States with my best friend,” Sapnap said, shrugging and turning back to his food. “Boring shit.”

“You’re right. America is  _ very  _ boring.” Wilbur winked at George. “We all know who the  _ superior  _ country is.”

“England is  _ worse _ ,” Sapnap snarled, slamming his fork down. “Fuck you.”

“Hello,” Dream said, placing George’s water cup in front of him. “Who are you?”

Wilbur raised an eyebrow and gave Dream a cursory once-over. “My name is Wilbur Soot.”

“Oh.” Dream looked taken aback at the introduction. “ _ My _ name is Dream Gaumort.”

George choked on his water.

“Gaumort?” Wilbur asked, all of the humor gone from his face, slowly enunciating the syllables.  _ Go - more _ . 

Sapnap put his head in his hands. Slowly, Dream sat down, his eyes wide and wary. “Yes,” he said. “Gaumort.”

George hadn’t known Dream’s last name. It had simply never occurred to him. 

“Like, Henry Gaumort,” Wilbur said. “The CEO of the SMPC?”

Next to George, Dream took a deep breath. “Yes. That Henry Gaumort.”

“You know that your father is – ”

“What?” Dream’s eyes turned hard and flinty.

“A mass-murderer?”

“Oh, as if I haven’t heard that one before,” Dream snapped. “What else do you want to say to me? That he’s ruining America? That he’s causing the war?” He shook his head and scoffed. “That he’s a mass-murderer, fuck’s sake – none of those things are true. He’s a  _ businessman _ , he – ”

Wilbur ticked off his answers on his hand. “1. America  _ gave  _ Henry Gaumort the ability to be the man he is today, so I think he certainly can’t make it any worse. 2. He’s not exactly trying to stop it like the rest of us reasonable folk are. And 3. Yes. Yes, he  _ is _ . American soldiers  _ and  _ Vietnamese soldiers  _ and _ , worst of all, Vietnamese  _ civilians _ . He’s not a businessman, he’s a soulless husk of a money-grabbing – ”

“We can  _ talk  _ about Vietnam.” Dream drained his water glass and slammed it down. “We can have a  _ civil _ discussion but if you’re just going to sit here and insult my family, that’s another thing entirely.”

“Civil discussion? You want to have a civil discussion?” Wilbur laughed. “A  _ civil discussion _ with the son of the richest weapons manufacturer this side of the equator? I don’t fucking think – ”

“ _ Shut up. _ ”

Sapnap’s eyes were hollowed holes in his face. Wilbur, his words choked off, looked stricken. Dream just looked sad. 

“I don’t want to hear this bullshit,” Sapnap hissed. “ _ I  _ want to hang out with my fucking friends. If you guys want to fight, take it somewhere else and George and I will continue like we were.”

Wilbur and Dream both looked at George.

The thing was, George had gotten tear gassed with Wilbur over the summer, in New York, screaming in the face of cops and gripping hands with strangers, running and crying and pouring milk into each other’s eyes on the floor of Eret’s kitchen. Everything Wilbur had said was true, about Henry Gaumort, about the SMPC, everything. George realized  _ why _ he’d never known Dream’s last name – Sapnap had simply never mentioned it, and now George understood why. He had tried his best to prepare George for yet another reason he hated talking about the war. 

“If you want to keep it going, keep it going somewhere else,” George said. “Sapnap’s here and you don’t do that shit in front of him.”

“George – ”

“Full stop,” George said firmly, looking straight at Wilbur. He couldn’t stop himself from glancing over at Dream, trying to gauge the horrible tension. Dream was looking at him, but George couldn’t read the look in his eyes. The ceiling lights flashed in his glasses as he looked away.

“Thank you,” Sapnap muttered, glancing at George and staring intensely at his food.

George tried another bite. The texture was weird in his mouth and it tasted so fucking bad. He chewed, aware of every movement at the table, the horrifying silence. Wilbur fiddled with his spoon, swirling a bowl of soup. Dream rattled his glass against the table and tapped his fingers.  _ 1-2-3-4.  _

“I’m going back upstairs,” Sapnap said. “This food is disgusting and I absolutely refuse to eat it. George, spot me a couple bucks for a hot plate for our room when you get a chance.” He grabbed his plate. “See you all.”

“Look at what you did,” Wilbur said to Dream as soon as Sapnap was gone. “You made him sad.”

“ _ I  _ made him sad?”

“Okay,” George said, holding out his hands. “Wait. Hold on.”

Dream didn’t look at him, but Wilbur did.

“So you’re in favor of the war?” George asked carefully, looking over at Dream. 

“I want it to end.” Dream’s fingers mindlessly tapped an endless loop on the table surface. “But I’m not like you two. Doves.”

“ _ Us two doves _ ,” Wilbur scoffed. “What the fuck, George.”

George pinched his lips together. “I just – I need a second.”

Wilbur shook his head, falling back in his chair and rolling his eyes. 

Dream ran a hand through his hair, shaking out the knots. “Yeah,” he said. “Fine.”

George hesitated, trying to find any peace from the turmoil in his head. He stood and finished the last of his water, the cup rattling as he set it down. “Bye.”

He headed back to his and Sapnap’s room, his mind reeling. Dream  _ Gaumort _ . Son of the richest war profiteer alive in the  _ world _ . How rich was he? How rich was  _ Sapnap _ ? He’d said “ _ the same tax bracket.”  _ What did that mean? What did that mean for their friendship? And, hold on, back to Dream – what did he  _ actually  _ feel about the war? How much was he willing to lie to George? They’d only known each other for two weeks but they’d been getting along. George  _ liked  _ Dream. He wanted to keep getting to know him.

He opened the door to his dorm room, lost in thought. Sapnap was curled up in his bed, his back to the room. George paused, and opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came to mind. He sat back down at his desk and stared at his letter to Eret.

_ My roommate Sapnap dragged me down to the mess to eat just now and I found out that _

George paused. He didn’t want to reveal too much. He and Eret had always kept their letters vague, constantly worried that they would be opened and read, a breach of privacy that had happened to a close friend of Eret’s, a year ago. Eret had been paranoid about his letters being read ever since.

_ – that a friend of mine and Dorothy’s is a hawk. His parents are rich and almost certainly the reason. Sapnap said they instilled these ideas in him from a young age. But we’re friends. And he’s sweet and smart but Wilbur hates him now because of it and I don’t know what to do. I should hate him, right? _

He read it back. It sounded so melodramatic, but Eret would understand. 

_ And Sapnap warned me, too. We’re friends and I knew the whole time he was a hawk but I didn’t know something else about him. About his parents. I don’t know how to explain it. I wish I could visit you. I wish you were here. Every time I leave I miss you. _

_ Love, _

_ G. _

Eret didn’t necessarily need long letters, but it was unspoken between them that those letters were always handwritten. His first letter to Eret had been when George was thirteen, immediately after his family’s move to America. His father’s typewriter had been absolutely off-limits so George had used his pen and the back of his chemistry homework. (Eret had written back on a report card that complained about his behavior in class and needed a parental signature. There was no signature. George had signed next to the X for him and sent the report card to England along with his response.)

George finished up the letter and sealed it in the envelope, slipping on his shoes. There was a mailbox across campus, and the mail was picked up every morning at 8 AM. It usually took about a week for mail to get to Manhattan from Mulbrang so he would probably have a response from Eret in two weeks. In his last letter, Eret had said that his telephone was on the fritz, so calls were out until George heard otherwise.

Already, the campus was cooling off. George shivered in his thin white shirt, walking faster to get out of the chilly air. He began to pass a courtyard off to his right, a maple tree tall in the middle. A lone figure was seated on one of the benches.

It was Dream, and he hadn’t seen George. Heedless of the weather, George stopped and observed him. He was sitting forward, his elbows on his knees, his head resting on top of his folded hands. George stepped towards him, his mind empty except for a goal: talk to him.

_ Footfalls echo in the memory / down the passage which we did not take _ .

The wind stirred the leaves on the tree and far off, something crashed and fell over. Dream looked up and George turned away, panic flicking through him. He hurried away, unsure if Dream had seen him or not. The campus felt colder.

George tried to imagine what it was like to have a father who was the head of one of the most powerful corporations in the world, a father who was designing ways for men to  _ kill  _ each other. How that would shape and affect Dream’s world, how he would see the war and the protests. The SMPC had only been a small company before the war, from what George had read; they had been designing mostly training programs and non-lethal weaponry for use at military camps. But once the war started, they’d upped their game to lethal weaponry at the same scale, and it had been ingenious. Not one other company had dominated like they had.

George could only assume Dream’s father was absent, by the way his tone had turned so defensive at Wilbur’s attacks. But to try to live up to those expectations and never meet them; to have a father who had achieved so much in so little time; and then to be his  _ son _ . No wonder he had pursued business and not sculpture.

Back in his dorm room, he curled up in his bed and switched off his lamp. Sapnap hadn’t moved from his position, facing away from the room.

“Sapnap,” George whispered.

Sapnap stretched out his legs. “George.” His voice was raspy.

He hadn’t really thought about what he wanted to say.  _ Sorry for dinner? I wish your friend wasn’t related to a power-hungry capitalist? How rich are you, actually? _

“Just wanted to know if you were still awake.” George shifted in his bed and buried himself deeper into his pillow.

“Yeah,” Sapnap said. “Can’t sleep.”

“Because of dinner?”

“I mean, I guess.” He was still facing away from George, his voice quiet. “Bad called. He got a part-time position teaching first grade down in Virginia.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

Sapnap turned onto his back. “It is.” His voice was hesitant. “I can’t explain it.” 

George stayed silent. Sapnap was thinking so loudly it filled the dark room. Outside, an owl hooted and the moonlight cast pale light across the floor. 

“It feels useless. Him being in the war. Him going over there for six months and just coming back because of – ”

He cut himself off. George folded a hand in the blanket. 

“What was he even doing over there?” Sapnap mumbled, more to himself than George. “What did he do that made a difference?”

George didn’t respond. They both knew what the answer was. The silence stretched and the light moved, inch by inch, across the floor, until the corner of the window started to cut a slice into the moon. George’s eyelids grew heavier and heavier, and sleep started to take him.

Sapnap’s voice faded through his drowsiness. “All for nothing.”

George slept, uneasy. 

His dreams whispered to him. Light whirled by like leaves in the wind, but George was standing still in the center.  _ Here is a place of disaffection / time before and time after in a dim light.  _

_ Only a flicker over the strained time-ridden faces  _

_ filled with fancies and empty of meaning. _

_ Burnt Norton _ blinked like a strobe light, bits and pieces filtering in. George reached out and caught it, a piece of paper burning at the edges, slowly getting smaller and smaller until it disintegrated.  _ Not here / Not here the darkness, in this twittering world. _

He woke to the sunrise.

Tuesdays were a busy day for classes. In the morning, a class on cultures throughout the world and an introductory archaeology course (Sapnap had lit up at George’s mention of it) and in the afternoon, Linguistics 101. 

Finally, in the evening, the class George had been looking forward to since he signed up for it. Located on the top floor of the tallest building on campus, ancient radiators creaking near the drafty windows, looking over the forest to the west. 5:00, at the time of the golden sky, the warm sunset.

George took a seat and pulled out his copy of the  _ Four Quartets _ . He had taken to carrying Dream’s copy around with him. Despite the two weeks that had passed since he’d stolen it (absolutely intentionally) he hadn’t given it back. The longer he went with it, the more awkward he felt about returning it. To that extent, he hadn’t even hung out with Dream without Sapnap there. And now he knew. Dream  _ Gaumort _ . 

Sleep had helped it settle, helped his mind stop reeling. Dream’s father had masterminded the creation of weapons that were killing thousands. And Dream was defending him. Now George just had to figure out how he felt about it.

The classroom was slowly filling up. He sat back in his chair and sighed, doodling in his notebook, and a woman bustled in, her hair pulled into a severe bun, her heels clicking on the ground as she walked.

George raised his eyebrows as she placed her bag behind the desk and took a piece of chalk from the tray, writing  _ T. S. Eliot _ in large letters up on the board. So Dr. Jordan DuPre was a woman. He hadn’t even expected it. 

George shook his head. Most of his professors were men, but that didn’t mean anything. Plenty of people were women. He’d stood side-by-side with some of the most badass women he’d ever met at protests. Eret had introduced him to some butch girls, one of whom later kicked a cop at a riot. 

Dr. DuPre checked her watch. “It’s 5:00,” she said. “Welcome to  _ An Introduction to Poetry _ . My name is Jordan DuPre.”

She gazed out over all of them. “I am a published poet. I have a bachelor’s degree in English literature from Georgetown University and a master’s degree in – ”

The door opened and someone rushed in, their head low, sitting in the closest chair and dropping their bag next to the seat.

DuPre continued, unfazed. “A master’s degree in sociology from the University of California in Berkeley. I have taught this course for seven years now. I also teach classes in …”

Slowly, George realized that he wasn’t looking at her any more. Across the room, the person who had come in late had pushed their long hair behind their ear and adjusted their glasses, their fingers inaudibly drumming on the desk. 

George looked away. It was Dream. Of course it was. He removed the  _ Four Quartets _ from his bag and flipped through it idly.

“This class will be structured in three parts,” DuPre said. “During the first third we will look at poetry that has its foundations in religion. Secondly, we will look at poetry that asks about the human condition. The third part of the class will be on romantic poetry – not the era, but the subject.”

George landed on the back of the front cover and it took him a second to realize what he was seeing. A list of names, and at the end –

_ This book belongs to:  _ Bryson Simmons 1961   
Nathaniel Faulkner 1962   
Jason Ross 1963   
Your Mom 3000   
Alex Dowling 1965 _  
_ Dream Gaumort 1966

He’d had the knowledge in his hands the entire time. 

“We’ll start off today by talking about T. S. Eliot’s background, before we discuss  _ Burnt Norton _ . If you would all get out your books and notebooks, I’ll take role now – when you hear your name, give a shout.”

George leaned over to the guy next to him. “Hey,” he hissed, “would you pass this over to the guy with the long blond hair?” 

The other boy shrugged. “Sure.”

George watched the book go down the classroom, handed from person to person, so caught up in it that DuPre had to say his name twice.

“George Verloren?”

“Here,” George blurted out, looking back over at her. “I’m here.”

He looked back at Dream, who was leaning back and talking to the guy behind him, who handed him the book. His eyes went wide and he sat up, his eyes landing directly on George.

“Dream Gaumort?”

“Here,” Dream said, his gaze never wandering.

“ _ Gaumort? _ ” somebody whispered, and Dream’s eyes dropped down to his desk.

George looked away. The feeling in his chest felt oddly like guilt, which was unreasonable. He shook his head to try and clear it. Guilt. Why would he feel guilt?

_ Because he’s your friend _ , a little voice inside his head whispered.  _ Because he’s your friend and he’s hurting and you know it. That’s it.  _

George scribbled in his notebook as his mind raced – objectively, he  _ should  _ dislike Dream. Dream stood against everything George stood for. Protesting, peace in Vietnam, stopping the spread of American imperialism.

_ Not everything. _

George glanced over at Dream, who was writing furiously in his own notebook, watching as DuPre spoke at length about Eliot’s religious background. George wasn’t paying attention. He knew it all already.

George bolted out of the classroom as soon as DuPre dismissed them, trying to avoid Dream, even as his whole body kept constant track of where he was and what he was doing, twisting his head to see where Dream was, if he was behind George in the stairwell, in the hallway, on the walkway outside.

He always seemed like he was doing that. Like his blood was magnetized to find Dream, and when he was close it sang. 

“George,” Sapnap grunted as he entered their room. He was facedown on his bed. “Why am I in college?”

“Because you want to get an education,” George said, curling himself up in his desk chair. “And you care about your future.”

“I don’t if it means  _ this _ .” Sapnap threw a notebook over his shoulder at George, and it bounced off his forehead.

George opened it to see Sapnap’s blocky lettering, a list of assignments marked  _ DUE BY NEXT WEEK _ trailing down the page. “You’d better get started.” He tossed the book back and Sapnap caught it with ease.

“Fuck you,” Sapnap said. “Dream is coming over tonight and I am putting this shit off.”

George choked up at the mention of Dream. “Sounds good.”

“You’re not gonna be weird about it, are you?” Sapnap sat up and glared at George, his dark eyes piercing through George’s soul. “I know you found out his daddy’s a piece of shit last night.”

“I won’t be weird about it,” George promised.

Sapnap rolled over onto his back. “You’re gonna be  _ so _ weird about it.”

“I won’t!”

He was. Dream lounged against the window, smoking Sapnap’s perfectly rolled blunt and George kicked his legs from the edge of his bed, his hands tucked under his legs, trying not to look weird. The warm light moved in the smoke and Sapnap lazily slid forward on his bed to rest his head in his hands.

“Dream,” he said. “Dream! Shotgun me.”

Dream tapped the ashes into an ashtray that sat next to him. “I thought you hated the war.”

George tensed. To his surprise, Sapnap snickered. “Bad did bring some good tricks back, though, didn’t he?”

George watched as something flickered in Dream’s eyes at the mention of Bad, but it was gone so quickly he barely registered it. Dream sighed. “We should just be glad he doesn’t have holes in his brain.”

“There’s always time.” Sapnap sat up and stuck his head out, watching Dream bare his teeth and carefully place the lit end between them. “Ready?”

Dream leaned forward and Sapnap took the other end of the blunt in his mouth and inhaled. George couldn’t look away. Dream’s eyelashes fluttered, and then Sapnap let go and Dream pulled back, removing the blunt. Sapnap exhaled, a long stream of smoke bursting from his lips.

Dream turned. “George?” He held up the blunt. 

“Sure,” George said, reaching out, and Dream  _ stuck the blunt between his teeth and leaned in.  _

George’s brain went blank. 

He must have paused for too long, because Dream took the blunt away. “I mean, did you…”

George panicked. “Yes! Yeah! Sorry. I just thought – I mean, I’ve never… shotgunned a blunt before.”

“Oh,” Dream said. “That’s okay. So I’m going to have this end in my mouth.” He gestured to the lit end of the blunt. “And I’m gonna push the smoke, and you’re going to have the other end, and you’re gonna pull. Make sense?”

“Doesn’t that burn?” George asked.

Dream shrugged. “A little bit. I don’t mind.” 

George hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Dude, I wouldn’t have just done it with Sapnap if I wasn’t.” Dream stuck the blunt between his teeth and stared at George, his chin tilted up.

George slowly moved forward and wrapped his lips around the blunt. This close, Dream’s face was blurry. He inhaled, felt the rush of smoke, the heat, and pretended like he couldn’t feel Dream’s nose brush against his. 

A knock sounded on the door and Dream pulled away, stubbing out the blunt. “ _ Fuck, _ ” he whispered, and Sapnap desperately started waving the smoke out of the window.

“ _ Do you think it’s an RA? _ ” he hissed, looking back at George, who still had a lungful of smoke. He leaned over the windowsill and blew it as far away as he could.

Another knock. “ _ George Verloren? _ ” came a high, questioning voice from outside the door.

Sapnap froze. “Not the RA. George. Go see who it is.”

George opened the door. Immediately a piece of paper was thrust in his face. “Telegram for ya.”

“Thanks,” George said.

“Bye!” the messenger boy said, and walked away. George closed the door and leaned against it.

“A telegram?” Sapnap asked. “Who sends telegrams anymore?”

George shook his head and opened the telegram.

GEORGE. MABEL HAS PNEUMONIA. DAVID AND I WILL SPEND TIME IN LONDON UNTIL WE ARE NO LONGER NEEDED. MUM

They couldn’t have even called.

“What is it?” Sapnap asked. “Who’s it from?”

George shook his head and pocketed it. “Not important.”

“Someone sent you a fucking  _ telegram _ , George. No one sends telegrams. Tell us!”

“It actually doesn’t matter.” George hopped back onto his bed. “It’s fine.”

“We wanna  _ knowwwwww _ ,” Sapnap whined, drawing out his vowels. 

“I  _ said _ , it’s not fucking  _ important _ .” 

A pronounced silence followed his outburst. Dream had an eyebrow raised. Sapnap’s lip curled. “Fine. It’s not fucking important.”

George sighed and turned over in his bed as Dream left and Sapnap changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth.

It was important. George’s grandmother on his father’s side had been in ill health for years. After years of battling asthma and multiple sclerosis, she was practically bedridden and her family members had been taking turns taking care of her. Now, George supposed, it was his parents’ turn. Pneumonia, and it wasn’t even October. She was probably going to die.

He reread his mother’s telegram.  _ Until we are no longer needed _ . They were going to stay until she died.

George wondered idly if he was going to get anything in her will. She had never liked George very much, preferring his other cousins to him and spoiling them rotten. When George and his parents were still living in London and visited her often, he had been met with a raised eyebrow, a dismissive look, a criticism on his appearance. Still, she was dying, and George felt the loss keenly. 

He went through the next several days like they were routine, going to his classes, doing his homework, waiting for the call, for the telegram. Anything. But nothing came, and Sapnap was pretending like he didn’t care but George could tell he was worried. 

“Sapnap said I should try talking to you.”

George glanced up from his textbook to see Wilbur standing above him, the tall bookshelves rising above his head. “Sapnap said that, did he?”

“Yeah, man, I mean, he’s worried about you,” Wilbur said, sitting down across from George. George absently flipped through his textbook and turned the lamp on. Outside the library window, the sun was setting. “He said you’ve been off for a little while.”

George shrugged. “Maybe. It’s not his business.”

“It fucking is though. He’s your friend.” Wilbur folded his arms. “So am I. You know that, right?”

George threw his hands up. “I mean, what do you expect me to do? Just tell him everything that goes wrong all the time?”

Wilbur groaned. “I fucking hate you, you – ” He cut off. “There’s the fucking hawk.”

George turned a little too fast to be natural, and saw Dream enter the lounge with a scrawny boy wearing an ill-fitting sweater.

“Can’t believe Sapnap is friends with him,” Wilbur muttered. “How does he do it?”

George shrugged. “I think they’ve been friends for a while. And Dream’s actually kind of nice.”

Wilbur shot him a disgusted look. “I don’t care how  _ nice _ he is. His father profits off of death.” He shook his head. “I should never have come to America.”

George almost laughed at that, his eyes still trained on Dream, who hadn’t seen him yet. “ _ I’m _ glad you’re here, Wilbur. It’s nice to have another Brit around.”

Wilbur gave him a punch on the shoulder. “Dickhead.” He stood. “Talk to Sapnap or something. Fuck’s sake, talk to  _ Dream Gaumort _ if it’ll get you out of your funk.”

George leaned back in his chair. “Bye, Wilbur.”

He focused back on his homework, an outline of the second chapter of his  _ Cultures Across the World _ textbook. It was grunt work, boring and slow, but he didn’t have any ideas for his linguistics essay, so he was putting that off in favor of the outline.

It took him a second, but he felt eyes on the side of his head and looked up to see Dream studying him, his eyes intense. When their eyes met, George didn’t look away.

He made a decision. He closed his textbook, piled his notebook and pens on top of it, and stood up, grabbing his bag. Dream watched him as he walked over. “Dream. Can I sit with you?”

“Sure,” the scrawny boy answered, and then looked over at Dream. “As long as that’s okay with you?” He had a vague accent that George couldn’t quite place.

Dream’s eyes flicked between George and the tabletop. “Of course.”

George sat next to Dream and spread out his materials again. The scrawny boy stuck out his hand. “I’m Fundy. It’s nice to meet you.”

“George,” George said. “You as well. How’s your evening going?”

“It’s so-so.” Fundy shrugged. “This guy dragged me to the library so he wouldn’t have to study alone.”

“Oh, come on. That is not what I said.”

“It certainly is,” Fundy retorted, looking, accusatory, at Dream. “You said  _ Oh, Fundy! My favorite roommate! Please, I don’t want to be alone tonight, please come with me to study –  _ ”

_ “Shhhhh, _ ” someone hissed from a corner of the library, and Fundy shrunk back in his chair. 

“That’s why I never come to the library,” he said. “They yell at me to be quiet, and yet I am the most interesting person in the room.”

George nodded seriously. “You are,” he said. “You are the most interesting person in the room.”

“I’m interesting,” Dream piped up, sounding offended.

George tsked. “Only vaguely.”

“ _ Shhhhhhhhhh. _ ”

George exchanged a glance with Fundy and turned his attention back to his work.

Slowly, the library emptied as the sun sank and the sky grew darker, the tabletop lamps solitary sources of light. George was content, slowly outlining an idea for his essay, hearing Dream scribble next to him, tapping on the table in thought, and Fundy across from them, the clicking of his calculator soothing in the low quiet. 

Eventually, Fundy stretched and yawned. “Boys, I think it’s bedtime for me,” he said. “Dream?”

Dream shook his head, still staring at his paper. “No.”

Fundy fixed him with a look, but Dream was still writing, his pen blurry with speed. “No?”

“I’m busy. Thinking.”

“Alright,” Fundy said. “George?”

“I’m almost done my essay outline,” George said, studying what he had so far. “I think I’ll stay as well.” 

Fundy tossed his bag over his shoulder and stood from his chair. “Sorry to you workaholics, then. See you in the morning.”

And then Dream and George were alone again, at a desk with a lamp beside them in the early evening. Dream was focused on his work and so George absorbed himself in his own writing, but something inside him still fixated on the man next to him, his heart beating slightly too fast to be normal, his breaths  _ just  _ the wrong side of short.

Finally, Dream sat back. “I’m glad  _ that’s _ done,” he said. “God, I hope I never have to write up a mock proposal again.”

“Sounds like something you might have to do, as a business major.” George looked up at him. Low light highlighted his eyelashes and cheekbones.

“I don’t think so, actually,” Dream said, shaking his head, a smile pulling at his lips. “No, I don’t think I’ll have to write up another business proposal, ever.”

George shook his head. “Oh, of course. What was I thinking? There’s  _ no  _ way any professor would ever make you do something as silly as a business proposal, not for a degree in business.”

“Duh. Why would they?” Dream was looking at him now, head-on, eyes smiling. 

“Well, they wouldn’t,” George grinned, shaking his head and trying to bite back a yawn. “They – they – th – ” He failed and hid his yawn behind his fist, rubbing his eyes.

Dream chuckled. “What was that, George?”

“Shut up,” George grumbled, slowly beginning to pack up his books. “I think I might head back.”

Dream was silent for too long, long enough that George started to feel a prickling across his skin, like something had gone wrong. He began to lift his head, when out of the silence, Dream spoke. “You’ve been strange for maybe a couple weeks now. Is everything okay?” 

George shrugged. “It will be.”

“But it’s not now?”

George searched for the words. “ _ They were behind us, reflected in the pool. / Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty, _ ” he said, imploring Dream to understand. 

Dream’s eyebrows furrowed. “That’s from  _ Burnt Norton _ , right?”

George nodded.

Dream took a very long, quiet breath. “You gave me the book back.”

George pressed his lips together and stared at the table. “I realized that – you’d probably need it.”

“I did,” Dream said. He paused. “Thank you.”

George nodded. “Of course. I kept it for far too long, anyway.”

Dream was quiet for a moment, his index finger twitching on the table. George found himself looking at his hands, strong and calloused, veins prominent on the back. 

“Alexander,” his mouth said, completely unbidden. 

Dream’s head snapped up. 

“I’m – sorry for making a very sudden judgement about you,” George said. “Based on – based on your father.”

Dream’s mouth twitched. “Wilbur calls me your  _ hawk friend _ . I heard him talking to Sapnap.” 

“Does that make me your dove friend?” George asked, tilting his head a little bit and watching Dream’s eyes follow the curve of his neck. 

Honey, not vinegar. He would change Dream’s mind about the war, eventually. In the meantime, there were plenty of other things they could do.

“Sure,” Dream said. He stood, so suddenly that he almost knocked over his chair. “I should – we should be getting back. To our rooms. Separately.” 

“Okay,” George agreed, trying to keep his smile from spreading too far across his face.

As they entered the dorms, George took a quick glance at the mailboxes, looking for the little switch that would be flipped if there was mail waiting for him in his room’s mailbox. (Sapnap said that it was red, as if that helped.) To his surprise, it was there, sticking out from the tiny metal cubby.

“Hold on,” George said, holding out a hand and stopping Dream. “I’ve got mail.”

Dream followed him to the mailbox. “Who’s it from?” he asked as George turned the key in the lock and pulled out the single letter and immediately recognized the handwriting on the front.

“My friend Eret!” George ripped the envelope open. “It’s here so much sooner than I expected.” He scanned the letter, his smile growing.

_ G, _

_ You’re going to have to learn to live with the fact that people don’t have the same opinions as you and all you can do is listen to them. Your professor sounds like a real dickhead, and I’m sorry, but just know when to stand down, and for fuck’s sake,  _ **_DON’T_ ** _ get suspended again. _

_ As for your hawk friend – have you fucked him yet? Try not to make things too awkward. And you know that you can have friends that have all sorts of opinions. It’s why I still get drinks with my old colleagues from the firm. I like knowing how they’re thinking. And his parents. G, no. His parents? Why do you give a fuck who his parents are and why does it make a difference  _ _ now _ _? They were his parents before you knew anything about them and they’re his parents now. Treat him with respect and if he’s your friend he’ll do the same.  _

_ I miss you very much, you bitch. Don’t stop writing.  _

_ \- E _

“What does it say?” Dream asked, trying to read over George’s shoulder. George folded up the letter and twisted around to smile at Dream, not even trying to contain the fondness he knew was there.

“Just confirming something I already know.”

“Wh –  _ George _ ! Why do you always do this? I wanna know what it says!” Dream took off after him as George raced for the stairs, giggling and stuffing the letter in his pocket. “George!  _ George! _ ”

“If you catch me I’ll tell you!” George shot back, booking it up the stairs. When he glanced back, Dream was hot on his heels and he took the steps three at a time, laughing hysterically, almost tripping over himself.

He reached the fifth floor and grinned at Dream over the handrail. “You live on the fourth floor, Dream.” 

“And you live on the sixth,” Dream agreed, looking up at him, brushing a hand through his hair. 

“Next time you’ll catch me,” George said, soothing Dream’s bruised ego.

“Next time I will.” Dream’s eyes were glimmering. “And you’ll tell me what’s in the fucking letter.”

“Maybe,” George amended. “Only if it’s not personal.”

“ _ Especially _ if it’s personal,” Dream said.

George rolled his eyes. “Go to bed, Dream. You’re spouting nonsense.”

Dream pulled open the door to the fourth floor dorms. 

“Good night, George.”

George smiled. “Good night, Dream.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the SMPC is not a real company. i really wanted to call it the SMP but the acronym wasn’t working out so i added the C at the end and at least we still have SMP lol. 
> 
> gaumort - gau somewhere along the way had something to do with war, and then mort = death, so dream’s last name means war death. and then verloren is just a direct dutch translation of “lost” so instead of george notfound we just have george [lost]. i was originally going to use george’s irl last name and then eventually was kinda just like,,, nah. 
> 
> please leave kudos and comments if you liked it and want to let me know what you think! my tumblr is @princedemeter if you want to come talk to me :)


	4. BURNT NORTON - the dance along the artery (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They stayed up until midnight on George’s birthday, passing the blunt around and calming down from the party, shoulder to shoulder, cross-legged on a carpet on the floor. George felt floaty, half-awake and half-dreaming, Dream’s knee brushing against his, Sapnap’s elbow resting on George’s thigh. They were all tangled together, pleased and tired and drunk, the smoke winding out of the window and the cold was the only thing keeping them awake._
> 
> _Eventually, they cheered as the clock struck midnight, and Sapnap closed the window and they fell asleep on top of each other, the lamp still flickering, low, warm, gentle._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayo, this chapter is 10,000 words check
> 
> i split it in half. part two will be posted when i'm at a halfway point writing chapter 5. i got a little behind this week and my goal is really to keep up with posting one chapter each week and this one was just so fucking long and took SO much time. so i set a limit for myself and now i can only post the second half of this chapter (which i got SUPER writers block on, btw) when i reach a certain point in chapter 5. setting limitations and goals for myself, helping myself become a better writer! yay :)
> 
> and this week an even bigger thank you to the wonderful jules and light, my beta readers, for all their support and help! they literally both beta read this chapter in bits over the course of this past week - most of that was this morning, when i finally finished it up and said "PLEASE EDIT" and they came THROUGH for me. 
> 
> TRIGGER AND CONTENT WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: drug use, specifically marijuana and LSD, alcohol use, war mentions, gore mentions, and death mentions

The first snow came in late October. A powdered-sugar dusting fell across the trees and the grass and the roofs on the buildings, and by midday it was gone. But George walked outside and breathed in the sting of the cold, the crisp smell of snow in the air and the sky, and smiled, drawing a little pair of circular glasses in the snow on the walkway in front of him.

Another shoe appeared, a brown loafer, and added a wide smile underneath. George looked up and gave the same smile to Dream, who was standing next to him. 

“How’s your morning going?” Dream asked, his hands stuck deep in his pockets, his hair messy and frizzy.

“It’s good.” George yawned. “It’s nice to wake up to snow, especially when it’s light like this.” He gestured around them. “How was your morning?”

Dream rubbed his eyes underneath his glasses. “My professor finally let me into the sculpture studio earlier.” He fumbled in his pockets and held up something shiny and silver. “Look! He gave me a key! It, uh,  _ does _ mean that I’ve been awake since…” He checked his watch. “5 AM.”

George winced. “But you’re at least creating the most incredible masterwork the world has ever seen.”

Dream brushed his hand on his trousers, which, now that George was looking at them, had a thin film of dust on them. “Absolutely.” He nudged George. “Well, I’m fucking cold. Want to walk over to Klein with me?”

George shrugged. “Lead the way.” They had discovered they both had morning classes in Klein Hall at the same time, and over the past month had met up in front of the dorms to walk over together. It had taken Dream a bit of time to admit that he woke up early in order to work in the sculpture studio on the other side of campus, under the watchful eye of the head of sculpture at Mulbrang. Unfortunately, however much George pried, he could never get Dream to admit what he was working on. Sapnap, too, was just as confused.

“See you after class,” Dream called as they split off from each other and went their separate ways. 

George gave a little wave and started walking backwards, only to turn around and bump right into a girl who gave him the stink eye and continued on her way. Oops.

His good mood immediately disappeared as he walked into the classroom and his professor sent him the stink eye. Over the course of the semester, George had been getting into increasingly intense arguments with Dr. Sharp over the war in Vietnam, the most recent almost getting him sent out of the classroom.

He sat in the front row and geared himself up.

Dr. Sharp stood and tapped his pointer on the board. “Good morning,” he said, his voice grating. “If you’ll all please bring out your essays and place them on my desk. Thank you.”

_ Fuck you _ , George thought, opening his folder and pulling his essay out. The prompt had been  _ Why did Vietnamese nationalists like Ho Chi Minh turn to communism after World War One? What did this fail to accomplish and why did the United States have to intervene? _ What a leading fucking question. George had his essay typewritten, checked for grammatical and spelling errors, and bound neatly with string. Sharp was  _ not _ taking him a letter grade down like he had in the last essay. George had used passive voice once –  _ once _ – on the last page. He was going to pass this class with flying colors. 

He placed it on the front desk and saw Sharp’s eyes snap to it, scanning the title page for anything he could take off for. George watched the disappointment appear and petty victory swirled in his stomach.

Class began slowly. Sharp assigned a new essay and went over their “lackluster efforts” in their previous essay. “The current one,” he intoned, “if my hopes are to be fulfilled in the slightest, might show one  _ single  _ iota of betterment. If not, I shall be forever doomed to failure as a professor.”

George resisted the urge to raise his hand and ask if he had ever listened to himself speak. 

Sharp began pacing. “The United States has approximately 170,000 men in South Vietnam currently and as far as I’m aware, more are to be sent over soon. They far overwhelm and outnumber the rugged Vietnamese in their home country. Soon, I believe, the war will be over and Vietnam will never fall victim to communism again. That Marxist Ho Chi Minh…”

George watched him talk, rambling about how terrible communism was and how great the United States was to try and stop the spread. George didn’t care about economics very much and only knew the basics of communist and capitalist systems, but he viewed the mistrust of communism as more of a melodramatic overreaction than anything the world would have to be protected from.

“...and as we know from the  _ first  _ Indochina war, our boys are having the time of their  _ lives  _ over there!” Sharp’s voice colored with humor, a smirk passing across his face. George’s gut filled with rage. He raised his hand. “That might be a –  _ yes, Mr. Verloren _ .”

“Do you know anybody who’s fighting in Vietnam right now?” George asked.

Sharp’s sweaty upper lip curled into a sneer. “I don’t see why it matters – ”

“Doesn’t it matter?” George sat up straight in his chair and folded his hands neatly. “You just said they’re having the time of their lives. What accounts are you basing that on?”

“Plenty of soldiers have returned with stories of incredibly cheap drugs sold right on the streets of Vietnam, smoking free pot out of their shotguns. I’m not  _ condoning  _ drug usage but – ”

“What about people who have lost their lives? What about people who have been permanently scarred by the war?”

“Young man, you are out of order.”

“If you knew anyone who was  _ actually _ in the war you’d know that this is far different now than it was ten years ago,” George snarled. His composure was slipping. He took a deep breath and pulled himself back together. “For one, the Viet Minh are fighting against us. Already we’re facing an uphill battle – ”

“The  _ might  _ of the United States military is unparalleled across the world. Our boys know what they’re getting into. They signed up for this.”

“My dad was drafted,” piped up a voice from the corner of the room. George turned to see a girl who had never spoken in class before with her hand slightly raised. “He was an accountant and he was drafted and I haven’t heard from him in four months.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear – ”

“My cousin signed up, but he said in his last letter he watched a guy get blown up,” someone else said. A boy, over in the back corner. “I don’t think that him smokin’ pot outta his shotgun makes a lick of difference.”

“My sister is a nurse.” Another boy from across the room spoke out. “She’s watched dozens of men die under her hands.”

“My best friend – ”

“ _ ORDER. _ ” Sharp slammed an enormous book down on his desk with a loud  _ BANG _ . “That’s enough. This class is not a debate.”

“Shouldn’t it be, though?” George was unable to resist.

“ _ Mr. Verloren _ , if you have a problem with my teaching methods, take it up with the dean of the college.”

“But it’s a class on current events. You can’t expect people to not have an opinion on what’s going on because they’re  _ going  _ to have some sort of connection – ”

“With the DEAN, Mr. Verloren. You are out of line.”

“What did you expect from this – ”

“Out of my classroom.”

Silence fell.

“Mr. Verloren, if you’re going to continue with this nonsense the door is right there. Or, you can stay and  _ know your place. _ ”

Without saying a word, George grabbed his books, swung his bag over his shoulder, and walked out. He could feel every eye in the room on him. 

The door slammed shut behind him.

George sighed and leaned against the wall. Oops. Second time in his college career he’d been kicked out of a classroom. And three days before his birthday, too. Hopefully Sharp wouldn’t do anything about it and get him suspended. For the second time in his college career.

He ambled downstairs, letting himself kick his legs off of every step and talk out loud. There was no one in the stairwell, like there always were in the change between classes when the halls were packed with people rushing around and bumping into each other. 

“ _Destitution of all property, / Desiccation of the world of sense, / Evacuation of the world of fancy, / Inoperancy of the world of spirit_ ,” George complained to thin air. “ _Desiccation._ **_Desiccation._** ” He rolled each syllable around in his mouth. “ _Inoperancy of the world of spirit._ ” A door opened behind him and he swallowed his words as someone hurried down the stairs past him.

He ended up sitting on a bench outside, watching the snow melt and waiting for Dream to get out of his class, flipping absently through the  _ Four Quartets _ . They had already moved on in their poetry class to the human condition and DuPre had just assigned Dylan Thomas’ “I Dreamed my Genesis” and Sylvia Plath’s “Elm.”

_ I am terrified by this dark thing _ _  
_ _ That sleeps in me _

George rubbed his hands together, the cold seeping into his fingertips and making them numb. He checked his watch – Dream’s class should have ended. Sure enough, the doors near him opened and students began to trickle out. George scanned each face for Dream’s, every nerve in his body electrified. Usually Dream got out before George, but now, George had been kicked out of class, and –

“You’re George, right?”

George looked up to see a man he vaguely recognized standing near him. “Yes,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“I’m in your Current Events class,” the man said. “My name’s Ponk. I, uh – you had some good points today.”

“Thanks,” George said, turning to face him. “I’ve been so fed up with Sharp this whole semester, and when he said what he said about them having a good time – ”

“It was like he didn’t even realize that it’s a real war,” Ponk blurted out. “I don’t understand how you can be an academic and still be so stupid.”

“The bigger your brain, the less common sense you have, I think.” George slid over to make room for him. “I was gonna lose it in there.”

“I would have said something, if you didn’t.” Ponk sat next to him. “My sister, she’s an army nurse, and her husband was in the 4th infantry.” 

George almost didn’t pick up on it. “You said  _ was _ ?”

“Do you have anyone in the war?”

He had changed the subject, and George let him. “My friend’s brother lost an arm. Honorable discharge.”

Ponk shook his head. “Bro, that’s fucking horrible. People are dying over there and I feel like all they can think about over here is money.”

“But they’re spending outrageous amounts on the war,” George started, but Ponk cut him off.

“That’s not what I’m talking about. It’s not just the weapons contractors and designers that are making money, it’s the politicians they support too. They’re promising to fund  _ all _ these conservatives’ campaigns for years if they keep voting for the US to stay in Asia.” Ponk was gesturing expansively, his jaw set in a firm line. “You follow the money and see where it goes.” 

“George?”

George looked up to see Dream, walking slowly towards him and Ponk. “Dream!” he said. “How was class?”

“Boring,” Dream said, his eyes landing on Ponk. “Who’s this?”

“My name’s Ponk,” Ponk said, holding out his hand for a firm handshake. Dream accepted it.

“Dream,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Ponk stood up. “Yeah, you too, man. George, nice talking to you.”

“Hold on,” George said. “My birthday is this weekend, I think my friends might be planning something. Would you want to hang out?”

“Hell yeah, dude, I’d love to,” Ponk said. “I’m in room 323 in the Grayton building, come find me if you need anything!” He swung his backpack onto his back and waved. “I’ve got class, I’ve got to go. See you boys!”

“He seems nice,” Dream said, raising an eyebrow. “Where’d you find him?”

George stood to meet Dream. “He’s in my current events class. He, uh – he just wanted to talk about something I brought up.” They began making their way slowly back towards the dorms, George curling his toes inside his shoes in a futile attempt to warm them.

“Oh, how was that today?”

“I got kicked out of the classroom.”

Dream stuttered to a halt. “You got  _ what? _ ”

“Kicked out.” 

“Of the classroom.”

“Of the classroom.”

Dream was opening and closing his mouth like a fish gasping for air and George stood there, his hands in his pockets, and waited for him to have something to say.

“What the hell did you  _ do? _ ”

“I just implied that he didn’t adequately assess the needs and style of the course,” George replied primly, turning to keep meandering down the pathway. Dream followed slowly. 

“And he kicked you out.”

“Well I implied very rudely.”

“Rude like how? What did you  _ say? _ ”

So George slowly recounted what he’d argued about with Sharp, watching Dream’s face for any signs of discomfort with the topic – in the past two months, their disagreements about the war had been few and far between, but they had been ugly and George really didn’t want to start one now.

But to his credit, Dream listened mildly and smiled when George told him about the classmates that had backed him up.

“No, I think you were right,” he said. “I don’t think he should be casting judgements on the soldiers fighting the war when he doesn’t know any of them. And you’re right about the debate, too. It doesn’t make sense that he’s just lecturing on current events. That’s something you can read in any newspaper.”

George stared at him. “Is this an early birthday present? You’re admitting I’m right – what’s going on here?”

“Because you are right and I’m not dumb,” Dream said. “Even I would tell that guy he’s wrong. Actually, speaking of your birthday, are you ready?”

George flung his hands up. “Ready for  _ what? _ You and Sapnap won’t tell me anything about what we’re doing on Saturday, how can I be  _ ready? _ ”

“Have you finished any long assignments that are due Monday, do you have any tests coming up soon, have you cleared out your schedule for Saturday?” Dream ticked off the list on his fingers.

George counted off in return. “Yes, no, and yes but Eret is coming up Sunday so it can’t conflict with that.” 

“Oh, your friend Eret, whose letters you won’t let me see?”

George rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Dream.”

Eret  _ was _ coming, and George was thrilled. It had been months since he’d seen Eret and he had been desperately missing his calming presence. He would be driving up on Sunday to hang out in the town around campus before he spent the night in a nearby hotel and went back to Manhattan. George spoke to him on the phone for a few minutes the other night:

_ “I’ve got the extra funds anyway and I still haven’t visited your campus or met this elusive Dream character.” _

_ “He’s not elusive, and he’s not a character,”  _ George had protested.  _ “Are you sure? I don’t want you wasting your money.” _

_ “It’s not a waste,”  _ Eret said.  _ “You’re one of my closest friends and you deserve to have a nice birthday.” _

George tuned back in. Dream was speaking: “... to head to class. I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah, of course,” George smiled. They were close enough that he had to tilt his head back to look up at Dream. His breath was steaming up his glasses. Close enough to touch, the scent of his cologne heady and strong. “I’ll – I’ll see you later.”

“I’ll see you later,” Dream said. His smile touched the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah.”

Their eyes were locked.

Someone nearby screamed and laughed, and George turned away. “Right. Bye, then.”

Dream hastily jerked his head away. “Bye.”

His nerves were singing. Saying good-bye to Dream made his blood heat up and his heart rate speed. George glanced over his shoulder as Dream pulled his hair behind his neck and disappeared around a corner.

Three days. Three days until his birthday. He couldn’t wait. 

Sapnap had somehow managed to convince George to come to a Halloween party held by one of the fraternities on campus. It was mostly a blur; dark-lit rooms, a dance floor, very bad jungle juice, loud laughter. Dream brushing up against George’s side, his face covered by a paper-plate mask.

They stayed up until midnight on George’s birthday, passing the blunt around and calming down from the party, shoulder to shoulder, cross-legged on a carpet on the floor. George felt floaty, half-awake and half-dreaming, Dream’s knee brushing against his, Sapnap’s elbow resting on George’s thigh. They were all tangled together, pleased and tired and drunk, the smoke winding out of the window and the cold was the only thing keeping them awake.

Eventually, they cheered as the clock struck midnight, and Sapnap closed the window and they fell asleep on top of each other, the lamp still flickering, low, warm, gentle.

George woke up first the next morning, the sun already streaming, bright, through the window. His head was pillowed on Dream’s chest, his legs slung over Sapnap’s. Slowly, he extricated himself and went to the bathroom. When he returned, the door opening with its usual creak, Dream and Sapnap were stirring, slowly pulling themselves upwards and stretching.

“Sleeping on the floor is a terrible idea,” Sapnap groaned. “Never let me do this again.”

“You’re just getting old.” George hopped onto his bed. “It’s not our fault.”

“I’m just getting – whose birthday is it!?” Sapnap lunged for George. “It’s yours, bitch! It’s your birthday! You’re old now, George.”

“How old are you?” Dream asked, standing and stretching. “You’re thirty, right?”

“Fuck you!” George pushed Sapnap away from where he was trying to give him birthday punches. “Shut up. Where’s my birthday present, arsehole?”

“ _ Arsehole _ ,” Sapnap scoffed. “Fine, Georgie, I’ll give you your present.” He turned away from George and began digging through the boxes underneath his bed, searching through his clothes.

“If it’s hidden in your underwear, I don’t want it.”

“It’s not – shut up. I’ve had this for ages because there’s no one who sells it around here,” Sapnap complained. “I had to hide it somewhere.” He emerged with a tiny box in his fist. “Take a look, gentlemen.”

Both Dream and George leaned in as Sapnap pulled off the lid of the box to reveal what looked like three pieces of confetti. George racked his brain for ideas on what it was as Sapnap stood there, smugly, until Dream gasped.

“Is that the good stuff?” His eyes were huge.

Sapnap nodded. “Same guy.”

“Wow. How long have you had it for?”

“Since before our road trip this – ”

It clicked. “Acid!” He peered down at the box. “No way.”

Sapnap winked at him and proffered the box. “Got it in one. Wanna go for a trip?”

Thirty minutes later, George poured himself a glass of water, took a sip, and promptly spit it out in shock. “What the fuck.”

“What’s up?” Dream asked, his gaze fixed on George.

“Why is water so good?”

It was like rain, like silver on his tongue. Like cold life-blood. He took another sip. “God, that’s amazing.”

“George, have you ever tripped before?” 

George shook his head and sat on the windowsill, meeting Dream’s eyes. “No, I’ve only ever smoked. I’m not really sure what to expect. I kind of want to go outside.”

Sapnap was standing, leaning against his bed. “I wanna go for a walk in the woods. It’s not too cold and it means we might peak at that lake.”

“I would love to be outside.” Dream stood. “Let’s go.”

The stairwell was cold, echoing footsteps all up and down. George spoke, and all of his words felt like ice cream on his teeth. So forward. So frontal. “ _ The dance along the artery / The circulation of the lymph / Are figured in the drift of stars. _ Iambic tetrameter. The whole piece is in iambic tetrameter. Iambic tetrameter.” He liked the way the T felt “It makes the poem feel older.” He looked over at Dream, and snapped his fingers, the sound bouncing off the walls, coiling up the staircase. “It echoes.”

“The poem or the snap?” Dream had stopped moving. 

“Well, both, right?” Sapnap said, his voice hesitant. “It was an example. You said the circulation. The drift of stars. It’s endless.”

“Endless? The  _ dance  _ ends,” George countered. 

“ _ Except for the point, the still point, / there would be no dance, and there is only the dance. _ ” Dream had moved two stairs closer to George. “Only a few lines later, he calls the dance immortal.”

“That implies the dance is a living thing.” Sapnap looked up at them.

“Have you actually read the poetry I put out for you?” George asked. 

“No.” Sapnap continued down the stairs and Dream and George followed. “I just… understood what you were saying.”

Dream nudged him. “A universal language.” 

George pushed open the door.

It felt like honesty. His eyes were seeing, and his mouth was breathing, and his chest was open, and his skin was electric. His head swayed. He could say anything.

The sun was high, the sky blue and trembling. The wind wrapped around his fingers like a lover, Zephyr, Zephyr, the west wind, and George turned to look to Dream, his hair tangled, mussed as if someone had run their hands through it,  _ his _ hands through it, and George wanted so badly to reach out and be someone, and he did. 

Dream looked at him.

“Your hair is soft,” George said. His fingers brushed against Dream’s neck and lit up his nerve endings. George could feel them firing into his brain. “Soft.”

“Dream’s hair  _ is _ soft,” Sapnap readily agreed, his hands on their backs, guiding them into the pathway to the woods. “I braided it over the summer.”

“I would like to see that.”

“You will. Left will take us to the lake.”

George looked away from Dream to where Sapnap stood on the left fork of a road, thin shadows floating across his face and dark hair shining blue in the sun. “Left.”

Dream forged to the left and George followed him in tandem, as if they were walking in the same shoes. The three of them looked to the sun, the upper canopy of stark branches jutting across the sky like cracks in porcelain. They looked dead, shriveled leaves clutching the branches in one last attempt to stay alive. But they  _ were  _ alive. They were all still growing, slowly, one thin ring thicker every year.

“I’m walking among giants,” Dream said. “The trees. They’re living, you know?”

“Every single one.”

“Every single one, and all of them were grown from – from something so tiny, an acorn, or a walnut. One seed. And they’re so – so old. So old. They were here before us, and they’ll be here after us.”

“And they’ve seen so much. All of the storms and the clouds and the rise and fall of the sun. They’ve lived through every day.”

He stepped forward and pressed his hand against the trunk of an enormous oak. “You are so old. And so, so loved.”

Two bodies pressed in beside him and they watched, silent, as life lived in front of their eyes, insects crawling across the bark, the tree breathing. For a second, immortal, infinite, circular. Breathing with age.

“Is this tree – is this tree moving?”

“It’s definitely moving.”

“That’s the acid.”

They broke out into peals of laughter, rising into the bare treetops and bubbling across the ground. 

The day progressed and they basked in the sun, the shade, pulled rocks from the floor of a stream. George felt as though his throat was going to implode. Everything was something, and nothing was nothing. His vision was so wide, so colorful, as if he was seeing the movements of their blood and their muscles, feeling every beat of his heart. He had a deeper level of understanding for people, for the world. He saw a chipmunk and teared up.

“It’s so small,” he sniffed, “but it has a brain and a heart and a soul. Its life is important, you know?”

Sapnap put his arm around George’s shoulders and gazed at the chipmunk in the underbrush with him. “I know. I know.”

It smelled like water and wet, like wet leaves. George breathed in the green air, through his nose and his mouth, the cold catching on his tongue.

“The lake!” Sapnap’s voice reached his ears and George’s head snapped up as he took off, skidding to a halt as the trees cleared and the ground opened up.

A rocky, pebbled shoreline, the water pale-sounding and translucent, splashing the toes of George’s shoes and the cuff of his jeans. The sun rippled in the surface, glittering off the frost-tipped trees on the opposite side, warm on their cheeks and cold on their fingers. Dream scuffed the rocks with his shoe and they tinkled over each other like music.

Sapnap leaned back and sat cross-legged, the ground shifting with his movement as his eyes became lost in the water. He was so bright to look at, and George found himself unable to look directly at him, as if he was a secret, as if he was intruding on something intensely private. He turned to Dream instead, and their eyes met.

“Sapnap, do you want to keep walking?” George asked. “I want to walk around the lake for a little while.”

“I think I’m just going to sit here and be in the moment.” Sapnap’s voice was slow, soft. “Everything is… everything is so around me. I want to be here with it.”

“I’ll keep walking,” Dream said. “Be back in a bit, Sapnap. We’re going to the left if you need anything.”

“I trust you,” Sapnap answered, his eyes closed. “Don’t fall in.”

Dream extended his hand to George, who took it, the single point of contact sending licks of fire coursing through him, dancing over his skin. Neither of them said anything.

_ And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight, _ _  
_ _ And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly, _ __  
_ The surface glittered out of heart of light, _ _  
_ __ And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.

Dream’s fingers shifted in George’s as they walked, the pebbles crunching beneath their shoes and the water lapping at the shore, the stones worn smooth by time. Their thumbs crossed over each other, fingers folded over the backs of their hands. Loose enough to let go, but they didn’t. George squinted in the bright sunlight.

Dream spoke. “ _Go, go, go,_ _said the bird: human kind / Cannot bear very much reality._ ”

George looked up at him. “I was just thinking about that.”

“Do you think that’s why we’re here?”

His toe accidentally kicked a rock into the water. “It’s escapism. But it’s not the same because this isn’t a hypothetical. This is real.” 

Dream’s hand squeezed his and shifted, their fingers interlacing, bumping against each other before fitting together like they’d always meant to be there.

Time passed as it always had. George’s heart beat carefully, bumping against his ribcage with kid gloves, every second ingraining itself in his memory. The rough skin of Dream’s calloused fingers brushing against his. How their arms bumped into each other. The trees billowed around them and the sky rippled, a reflection of the water, and George could feel Dream’s pulse, his lifeblood, underneath his hand. Their lungs rose and fell together.

“Happy twentieth birthday, George,” Dream finally murmured, smiling over at him, his eyes bright. “Let’s head back to Sapnap. He’s probably lonely without us.”

The sun was sinking, already close to the tops of the tallest trees, and Sapnap was lying on the ground, his eyes closed when they came back. George sat next to him, and he opened his eyes.

“I’ve never tripped alone,” he said. “I’ve heard that it’s not very fun, and maybe if I’d been alone the whole time it wouldn’t have been as nice. But I was so… nothing was wrong.” He sat up. “I was listening to everything, and I smelled the water and the forest and the air. I was breathing.”

George nodded. “It felt like I was meant to be there.”

Sapnap pushed himself into a standing position. “I’m ready to head back. You guys?”

Dream helped George up, and held his hand for a second too long. George felt his heart burst into a thousand shining stars. Emotion welled up in his throat. “Whenever you are.”

The sun was setting over the horizon by the time they were back on Mulbrang’s campus, casting gold onto their faces. Dream’s hair shimmered, loose strands falling in front of his eyes. “George!” he blurted out, and George raised his eyebrows.

“What, Dream?”

“I have your present! But I have to go get it from – I have to go get it.”

“Get it from where?” George pushed.

“From somewhere.” Dream turned and dashed off down the pathway. “I’ll meet you two at your room!”

“He’s on his own wavelength now.” Sapnap started walking across the lawn to their dorm. “He did this every time we tripped over the summer, while we were coming down, he just  _ had  _ to go run off by himself to do something.”

George giggled. “Where else did he go?”

“Um, well, he went swimming in a lake you aren’t supposed to go swimming in…” 

It was maybe half an hour before Dream, frazzled and hiding something behind his back, burst into their room. “I got sidetracked.”

“You? No.” Sapnap raised an eyebrow.

“I thought – I saw something that could have been improved – George, this is for you.” 

George took it, so carefully, so slowly, fragile fingers and an even more delicate gift.

A bird, brown with white spots on its stomach, its wings puffed out and ready to fly, surrounded by multiple thin concentric circles on different planes, like those of an astronomical sphere. George turned it over in his hands, the velvety painted clay soft underneath his fingers, studying it from every angle. Finally, he looked up.

“The deception of the thrush?” 

His voice was barely a whisper. The air was trembling, glassy, and Dream’s eyes were so tender it hurt to meet them.

Dream answered him: “At the still point of the turning world,” and it felt like a dance.

George looked back down at the sculpture, and studied it more. He could see where Dream had used a tool to even out the flat of the circles, and where he had used his fingers. He could see a thumbprint, a little unevenness, and his heart ached. It was so beautiful, filled with so much painstaking effort and months of planning and forethought.

“I love it.” He stroked his thumb across the thrush’s tiny little head, felt the sharpness of the beak. “I love it, Dream.” 

“Thank you,” Dream murmured, so quietly George almost didn’t hear it. “George.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! look out for part two posted sometime in the upcoming week, and then chapter five next thursday. as always, leave a kudo or a comment if you enjoyed it! 
> 
> i want to give a HUGE thank you to everyone who's commented or come onto tumblr to talk to me! you're all so incredibly kind, and to the people who have commented on multiple chapters - THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, you have no idea how much it means to me. 
> 
> find me on tumblr @princedemeter!


	5. BURNT NORTON - the dance along the artery (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The front door opened and a head of curly hair appeared, head twisting around. Eret’s deep voice resonated through the air and George couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “George!”_
> 
> _“Eret! That’s actually not – you can’t park there,” George said._
> 
> _Eret looked up at the sign that clearly said NO PARKING. “Oh, shit. Sorry about that. Hold on.” He dove back into the car and closed the door again and George hastily moved out of the way as he peeled out of the parking space and made a 90-degree turn into one two spaces away, his car crooked and almost hitting the car next to him. He jumped out again and looked at his parking job. “Eh. It’s good enough.” He closed the door and looked at George, shivering in the November breeze. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come and give me a fucking hug.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so you know how last week i promised chapter 4 part 2 would be posted before thursday? i fucking lied. happy thursday, and here's chapter 4 part 2. chapter five is filled with George Lore and goes up next thursday. 
> 
> big MWAH to jules and light, my lovely betas. thank you for putting up with my bullshit, i owe you everything
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS: weed usage, hallucinogenic mention, war mention, death mentions. i also use the word "queer," but it's spoken by an LGBTQ character and not meant as a derogatory term.
> 
> this one's pretty light but it's got its moments.

The next morning saw George wake in a haze of warmth and happiness, clarity rounding the corners of his vision as he sat up. He looked out the window at the sunrise and then over at the sculpture sitting opposite Sapnap’s bear, the bird inside the circles. Dream had no name for it save for  _ The Thrush _ , and Sapnap had happily taken to calling it  _ Tongue Fungus _ , but George liked  _ The Dance _ .  _ There the dance is,  _ his mind supplied, and he smiled, curling his fingers in his bedsheets and tucking his knees up to his chin.

He stayed there for a moment, wrapped in his blankets with his breath warming his face, compact and safe, basking in the afterglow of the trip the day before and the overwhelming feeling rising in his throat, the one he could barely give name to.

He slid his legs out of bed, his toes hitting the cold air, and shivered as he picked up his stuff and began his morning routine.

Eret was supposed to arrive at noon that day, and god knew Eret was the only queer George had ever met that was good at being on time, so when he realized he’d slept through his alarm and only had an hour to clean his filthy room, he made such a ruckus he ended up waking up Sapnap. He had to clean  _ his _ side of the room, at least. Sapnap’s side was neat.

“I had one condition,” Sapnap groaned. “Keep the room clean.”

George scraped an unknown substance out of a desk drawer. It was sticky. “It’s my birthday. You can’t yell at me.”

“It’s November 2nd, which means that it’s not your birthday any more.”

“It’s still my birthday because we’re having a birthday party tonight.”

“Who said we’re having a birthday party?”

George’s mouth dropped in offense. “Me.  _ I  _ said we’re having a birthday party. Also you, Sapnap. You proposed the birthday party.”

“My mistake. I didn’t know you were planning on waking up at the fucking crack of dawn to clean.”

“It’s Eret,” George said plainly, because it was Eret. 

“So Eret deserves for the room to be clean and I don’t?”

“You talk in your sleep,” George countered. “And you’re mean to me.”

“Because you don’t keep the room clean!”

11:55 rolled around and George hurried down the stairs to the small parking lot on the other side of the building. He plunked himself down on a bench to wait for Eret’s tiny little car to trundle into the parking lot and sit itself, shuddering, into a parking place.

Like clockwork, at 12:01, a little green bug came shrieking around the corner, brakes squealing, and screeched to a halt in a spot that was not a parking space. George got up and ambled over.

The front door opened and a head of curly hair appeared, head twisting around. Eret’s deep voice resonated through the air and George couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “George!”

“Eret! That’s actually not – you can’t park there,” George said. 

Eret looked up at the sign that clearly said  _ NO PARKING. _ “Oh, shit. Sorry about that. Hold on.” He dove back into the car and closed the door again and George hastily moved out of the way as he peeled out of the parking space and made a 90-degree turn into one two spaces away, his car crooked and almost hitting the car next to him. He jumped out again and looked at his parking job. “Eh. It’s good enough.”

“I mean, you  _ could _ straighten it out…” George offered doubtfully.

“Me? Nah. It’s good enough.” Eret closed the door and looked at George, shivering in the November breeze. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come and give me a fucking hug.”

George leapt forward and Eret wrapped his arms around him, squeezing him and shaking him a little bit. “God, you’re such an asshole,” George grumbled into his shoulder. “Fuck you.”

“I love you too, George,” Eret laughed above him, still gripping him tightly. 

In all the time George had known him, Eret had always hugged until George broke away, never wanting to withhold comfort from someone who needed it. It had been the cause of a number of times they’d woken up on a couch together, Eret’s arm wrapped around George, and one specific day when Eret had held George until he cried.

George pulled away and Eret grasped his shoulders. “Let me look at you. Are you eating enough? Are you drinking enough water? Are you getting enough sleep?”

“What are you, a grandmother? I’m fine.”

“I highly doubt you’re anywhere  _ near _ fine,” Eret scoffed. “Did you eat breakfast today?”

George glared at the ground.

“That’s what I thought. Get in the car, I saw a diner on the way in.”

“Oh, I don’t have any – ”

“I do. Get in.”

So George found himself sitting in a diner booth sipping his little pink milkshake and keeping up appearances with a burger and fries, talking to Eret about the important things. “His father is Henry Gaumort.”

Eret contemplated this for a second. “Damn. That must suck.”

George nodded. “That’s kind of the conclusion that I came to. It still feels like a betrayal, entering into anything.”

“Betrayal of who?” Eret stole a fry and George let him. 

“My morals, I guess. How am I supposed to – ” The diner was empty. The nearest table was eight feet away. George lowered his voice. “ –  _ see  _ someone who has such opposing values to mine?”

Eret rolled his eyes. “Trade is trade, George.”

George shook his head. “That’s not what this is.”

Eret sat back and raised an eyebrow. Slowly, his head tilted as he studied George’s face and the realization dawned in his eyes. “I see.”

George bit his lip and waited for Eret’s next words.

“Tell you what, you bring him to one of my performances, okay?” Eret said. “I’ll make sure to align something with your spring break here. The two of you can stay at my place, you can cook each other eggs, and you can talk about the culture.”

“I don’t think that’s the problem,” George said.

“But it’s  _ going  _ to be out of his comfort zone. You can start introducing him to people he’s never met and experiences he’s never had. How rich  _ is _ he, anyway?”

George shook his head and felt himself smile nervously. “I haven’t quite asked.”

“Jesus,” Eret said, taking a sip of his Coke. “And he’s up here at Mulbrang and not at… Oxford? Yale?”

Something thrummed in George’s chest. “I honestly think part of it is because Sapnap is here. They’ve been friends since childhood.”

“Sapnap? Is he  _ so _ ?”

George snickered at the Polari. “No, he’s not. And that’s old as hell.”

Eret shrugged. “Just scoping out the situation.”

They finished up and Eret rolled the windows down, George giving in and letting his hand float on the breeze, scooping up the air, the wind ruffling the short sides of his hair. Over in the driver’s seat, Eret grinned over at him and turned on the radio.

George closed his eyes and suddenly they were years younger, in a much cleaner version of the same car, Eret’s grin toothy and his skin splotchy, his voice higher. George had to be back in Philadelphia by 6:00 on Saturday and it was 5:10 and they were barely halfway through New Jersey. Racing down the highway, Eret wove outrageously through the cars, napkins flapping in the wind from the open windows. He’d pinned his hair down with bobby pins so it didn’t fly in his face and George stuck his hand out the window despite the angry warning from the driver’s seat. The wind climbed up his arm, dried his eyes out, and he closed them.

He opened them and the sky was brighter, if cloudy, and Eret’s hair was longer and the car was missing a few components it might have had a few years ago. 

Eret pulled into the parking lot with all the finesse of an elephant threading a needle, and unlocked the doors. “Introduce me to your friends.”

George walked Eret into his building, up the stairs, down the hallway, and opened the door to his dorm. Eret stormed in. Sapnap looked up in alarm from his desk.

“I’m Eret,” Eret announced. “Are you Sapnap?”

Sapnap’s face burst into a shit-eating grin and he jumped up. “You’re Eret!” He sounded thrilled. George’s heart sank in despair. “I’m Sapnap. It’s nice to finally meet you. Do you have embarrassing stories about George?”

“Infinite. Everything George does is embarrassing.”

“He likes to pretend it isn’t.”

“He fails.” 

“I can hear you.”

They turned to face him. Sapnap spoke first. “You won’t admit to shit that you’ve done.”

“It’s because I haven’t done anything.”

“Because you haven’t – !” Eret choked. “What about that poem you gave to… what was her name?”

“That’s in the past.”

Sapnap’s eyes widened. “What’s this?”

“Or the time you thought it was me and scared the living soul out of a random stranger on the street?”

“Shut up.” 

“ _ George. _ ” Sapnap looked gleeful.

“George, he was eighty and nearly had a heart attack.”

“That just says something about the way you look – ”

“Moreso about your vision.”

“I’m colorblind!”

“And what about the time you sat on a baby?”

“ _ I did not sit on a baby. _ ”

“George, you sat on a baby?” 

George whirled around. Dream was standing in the doorway, lopsided grin touching the corner of his mouth, hair pulled back and draped over his shoulder. George’s heart skipped a beat. He hesitated too long.

“I did not sit on a baby.”

“You definitely sat on a baby. How did you sit on a baby?” Sapnap hopped off his bed. “Eret. Tell me. I want to know.”

Dream entered with Fundy, who looked confused but intrigued. “You’re Eret?” Dream asked. “My name is Dream.”

“ _ You’re _ Dream,” Eret said, and stuck out his hand to shake. George wanted to sink into the floor. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Dream glanced over at George before taking Eret’s hand. “You too. I have a question for you – what do you say in your letters to George? He won’t tell us anything.”

“I hate you all,” George said. “Except for you, Fundy. You’re very nice.”

“Thank you,” Fundy said.

“If you want George stories, I’m ready to tell them.” Eret beamed at George, bright and sunny. George wanted to throttle him.

“You are  _ not. _ ”

“George and I grew up together in London, so I was there for all of his adolescent misadventures,” Eret explained, Sapnap, Dream, and Fundy hanging on to his every word. “What would you like to hear about?”

George and Sapnap spoke at the same time.

“None of them.”

“What’s the most embarrassing?”

“You’re all terrible,” George said. “I’m going to go hang out with Wilbur.”

“Oh, Wilbur’s here?” Eret turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Bring him through.”

“Not to hang out with you when you’re like this,” George snapped. “Wilbur  _ cannot _ have dirt on me.”

“Wilbur already has dirt on you.” 

“Well, he can’t have more. Have you met those kids he hangs out with? I don’t trust them.”

“Oh, Tommy and Tubbo? They’re quite nice.”

“They are  _ no _ such thing.”

Sapnap stuck his head over Eret’s shoulder. “You guys are leaving the rest of us out.”

“You were never in, Sapnap,” George shot at him, wrenching open the door. “Celebrate without me, you fuckers.”

Eret grabbed the kettle off of Sapnap’s hot plate. “Hold on, George.” He turned to Sapnap. “Is this working? Can we boil water in it?”

Sapnap nodded. “Yeah, yeah.”

“George, while you’re gone, would you fill this up with water?” Eret handed George the kettle and George took it, rolling his eyes.

“I  _ guess. _ ” George began to swing the door closed.

“Thank you, dear.”

George’s heartbeat froze in place and across the room, he saw Dream’s head snap up to look at the two of them, his eyes widening.

_ Fuck _ . 

The door closed.

George returned with the water and Wilbur. Dream avoided his gaze, no matter how much George tried to catch his eye. Eret poured them all tea into paper cups, tea bags appearing from thin air. The room filled with steam and warmth and the floral scent of chamomile.

Well into the afternoon, Ponk joined them and they passed a blunt around, but it didn’t last very long with so many people, so they rolled another and another, and slowly the light dimmed and the laughter grew longer and lower.

Somehow, they’d all shifted places and Ponk was on George’s windowsill, Sapnap and Wilbur were sitting on Sapnap’s bed, Fundy was in Sapnap’s desk chair and Eret was in George’s, and Dream was pressed up and down George’s side, hands fisted loosely in George’s sheets, their legs dangling off the side of George’s bed. Eret’s eyes were gleaming with pride and George just  _ knew _ , just  _ knew  _ that Eret had something to do with this – he was sure of it. He didn’t know  _ how _ , but it was Eret’s fault. 

Ponk was the first to go, curled up in the windowsill, a pillow behind his back, arms wrapped around his legs. He snored, and none of them had the heart to wake him. 

Wilbur was next. He’d pulled his legs up onto Sapnap’s bed, leaned against the wall, said, “Wake me up when you want me to leave,” and had promptly fallen asleep.

Fundy was third. He was drooling all over Sapnap’s homework, his head pillowed on his arms, legs skewed at an angle he was going to regret when they cramped in the morning.

“You two are taking care of George, right?” Eret had asked, after taking a long drag of the blunt. “You’re making sure he eats breakfast and that he sleeps?”

Sapnap, leaning against his headboard, nodded. “We do our best, but sometimes he’s un-take-care-of-able.”

“That’s… not a word,” George mumbled, his eyes thin from the pot. “And I can take care of myself.”

Dream laughed and put a hand on George’s back. George froze as the contact coursed through him. “No you can’t.” To Eret: “We do take care of him. He’s eaten breakfast every day for the past week.”

Now that George thought about it, he actually had. Either Dream or Sapnap had been dragging him down to breakfast for a while, and one time it had actually been Wilbur.

“Have you all planned this?” he asked, looking over at Dream and unconsciously moving closer. “Have you actually talked about this?”

“Only joking, at the beginning,” Dream said. “Then we actually realized it worked, so now we kind of trade off. It makes me take a break from sculpting, actually, which I need sometimes.”

“Sculpting!” George echoed, sliding off the bed and away from the warmth of Dream’s hand, which followed him down, sliding up his back and through the fine hairs on his neck. He shivered. “Eret. Did you see what Dream got me for my birthday?”

“I didn’t,” Eret answered, his eyes crinkling in amusement, as George reached for  _ The Dance _ , which was sitting on his bookshelf.

“Be careful,” he warned, as Eret took it with one hand. “Be  _ careful!” _

“I’m  _ being _ careful.” Eret turned the delicate sculpture over. “It’s beautiful, Dream, did you make this?”

“I did.” Dream’s voice was full of restrained pride. 

Eret reached through the wheels to stroke the bird and George had a heart palpitation. “Be careful.”

“George,” Eret sighed, “I’m being as careful as I can be.”

“No you’re  _ not _ ,” George snapped. “You’re gonna break it!”

Eret looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. “If you’re that worried, you can hold it.”

George took it, wordlessly, and put it back on his shelf. Eret shook his head as George hopped up beside Dream again, unintentionally grabbing his hand as he did.

Dream let him, and as soon as George was seated, pulled gently away, his fingers tracing over the back of George’s hand. 

Eret was obviously looking elsewhere, and as quickly as Sapnap glanced over at them, he glanced away, and George moved over, just a little bit, enough to put space between him and Dream. 

Sapnap sighed and turned over. “I’m going to sleep. If I kick Wilbur off the bed, it’s not my fault.” He kicked Wilbur, who mumbled in his sleep and latched onto Sapnap’s ankle. 

“I guess it’s my cue to leave as well,” Eret said, standing. “George. Walk me to my car.”

George opened the door for him, and glanced at Dream as he was leaving, trying to think of something to say, but Dream wasn’t looking at him. He closed the door.

“Are you good to drive?”

Eret was flouncing down the stairs, his footsteps heavy, his fingers fluttery on the railing. “I’ll drive carefully.”

“Are you sure?” George pushed the door open with his shoulder and they exited into the chilly evening air. “You’ll drive nice and slow?”

“George. I’ll be fine.” Eret enunciated every syllable carefully, delicately. “ _ You _ need to go up there and give that boy the time of his  _ life. _ ”

“I…” George could barely breathe. No one was around. “Am not gonna do  _ anything  _ like that. He’ll probably be gone anyway.”

“He thinks you’re  _ so  _ pretty.” Eret bopped George on the nose with his index finger. “Just go for it.”

“No – Eret, I know things are different in the city.” George leaned in, close, and oh – they had reached the car. He put a hand on it to prop himself up. “I know they’re different. But I have to – I have to watch out for my every move. I can’t – I can’t be too careful.”

Eret nodded. “I understand. Trust me, I do.” He grabbed George and pulled him into a hug, squeezing him so tightly it hurt. George grasped at Eret’s shoulders and tried not to cry.

“I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, George. Very, very much. I’ll call from a pay phone when I leave tomorrow.”

George nodded into Eret’s neck. “Okay.”

Eret rubbed George’s back and they stayed there for a few more moments, George sniffling and valiantly trying to hold back tears.

Eret never let go first.

George pulled away, wiping his eyes. “Okay. Drive safe.”

“Bye, George.”

“Bye, Eret.”

George watched as the little car pulled away, at a normal speed, and trundled away into the dark, tail lights fading into the mist.

When he returned to his room, Dream was still there, on his bed, swinging his legs and staring at his fingernails.

“Oh,” George said. “You’re still here.”

Dream shrugged. “Yeah.”

Tentative, George pushed himself onto the bed next to Dream. “Thank you, Dream.”

“For what?”

George tilted his head to the side. “I had a really good birthday weekend. And you were a part of that. So thank you.”

“Sapnap did all the work.”

“You think that – the sculpture, your sculpture, wasn’t work?” George asked, pulling his legs up to sit cross-legged, facing Dream. His knee bumped up against Dream’s and he didn’t make any effort to break the contact. “It’s beautiful. I’ll treasure it forever.”

Dream pressed his lips together and brushed his hair out of his eyes. He glanced over at George and glanced away. “Really?”

“Yes,” George said, and reached out, touched Dream’s arm with just his fingertips, gentle, so gentle. “Really.”

Dream swallowed, quiet and intimate in the warm air, his fingers tapping on his knee.  _ 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4. _

He pulled away, too sudden. “You and Eret seem close.”

George sighed. “Dream – ”

“Best friends since childhood?”

“I could say the same about you and Sapnap.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

No, he couldn’t. “It’s not – he’s a brother to me.”

“Sure.”

“I’m serious.”

Dream sighed. Someone snored, loudly, and George flinched. A constant reminder that they weren’t alone, that privacy was an illusion. He dug his fingers into Dream’s arm. 

“What, George?”

“Nothing,” George said, and the air was thick and rubbery. Dream stared off into space, his eyes fixed on something that wasn’t there. George felt the tension grow in his shoulders, the shortness of their words infuriating. He couldn’t stand speaking in riddles. 

He turned to Dream, sudden determination rising in his chest. “ _ I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where. / And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time. _ ”

Dream studied his face, his eyes flickering between George’s, his lips parted slightly, and he said, “Hephaestion,” and it was all George needed to hear.

When he woke up the next morning, Dream was still there, his breathing even, his hand on George’s hip. 

_ “Devouring time, blunt thou the lion’s paws _ _  
_ _ And make the earth devour her own sweet brood _ …”

George leaned back in his chair and watched the sallow boy up front deliver the lines of Shakespeare with all the emotional impact of swatting a fly. He liked this sonnet, too.  _ Burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood. _ Now  _ there _ was a powerful line. This kid had said it as though Dr. DuPre was twisting his wrist with a wrench.

Dream caught his gaze and rolled his eyes. His sonnet lay flat on his desk, scribbled in near-illegible handwriting, and every so often he glanced down at it, mouthing the words to himself.

It was a mean, mean end-of-semester project, for DuPre to make them memorize a sonnet and perform it in front of the class. It was part of their final grade, alongside their exam. They had all picked them randomly from a hat, and Dream refused to tell George what his sonnet was. In return, of course George had kept his sonnet from Dream. (It was a startlingly morbid work.)

“Thank you, Mr. Frost, for that moving performance,” DuPre said dryly as the boy slouched into his seat. “Next. Mr. Gaumort.”

Dream flicked his eyebrows up at George, stuffed the sonnet into his back pocket, and pushed himself up from his desk. He stood at the front of the classroom, his shoulders stiff, his hands locked behind his back, and closed his eyes.

George felt his heart stutter in his chest. 

_ “Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now; _ _  
_ _ Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross, _ _  
_ _ Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, _ _  
_ _ And do not drop in for an after-loss:” _

In Dream’s voice, baritone and soft, the sonnet was forlorn, wistful. As if he had already given up, his eyes closed and posture so defensive, so shielded. He wasn’t reciting the poetry – it was Shakespeare, a playwright. He was  _ acting _ it, too.

_ “Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scoped this sorrow, _ _  
_ _ Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe; _ _  
_ _ Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, _ _  
_ _ To linger out a purposed overthrow.” _

Dream opened his eyes and he was looking right at George, pleading, desperate. George’s lungs twisted. He couldn’t breathe. 

_ “If thou wilt leave me, do not – do not leave me last, _ _  
_ _ When other petty griefs have done their spite _ _  
_ _ But – but – ” _

Dream’s expression turned from gentle to panicked, and he cast around desperately for the next words. His mouth formed something, and his hands started to shake, jittery, nervous. George locked eyes with him, urging him to calm down, to relax.

Dream closed his eyes again and took a breath.

_ “But in the onset come; so shall I taste _ _  
_ _ At first the very worst of fortune's might, _ _  
_ _ And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,” _

His eyes opened. Bright, and starry. 

“ _ Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.” _

Oh, fuck.

The classroom lightly applauded and Dream returned to his seat next to George, his head bowed.

“Good, Mr. Gaumort,” DuPre commented, and then moved on. “Next…”

George leaned over to Dream. “That was beautiful, Dream.”

“I fucked up a line.”

“But you  _ meant _ it.”

It set George on edge for his own performance, later on in the class. He ran over the lines in his head, all the inflections, the iambic pentameter, the hiccups in the iambic pentameter and the alliteration that had been tripping him up.

“Mr. Verloren? It’s your turn.”

George stood, feeling sweaty, and made his way to the front of the classroom. Dozens of pairs of eyes stared up at him and he found the only ones he was looking for.

Dream smiled at him and George took a deep breath.

_ “No longer mourn for me when I am dead _ _  
_ _ Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell _ _  
_ _ Give warning to the world that I am fled _ _  
_ _ From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:” _

It  _ was  _ morbid. In a way, George thought, it was one of the most selfless and romantic of all of the sonnets.

_ “Nay, if you read this line, remember not _ _  
_ _ The hand that writ it; for I love you so _ _  
_ _ That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot _ _  
_ _ If thinking on me then should make you woe.” _

He didn’t care about his legacy, about the remembrance of his life. All that talk about honor in all of his plays, and yet he was willing to give it all up.

_ “O, if, I say, you look upon this verse _ _  
_ _ When I perhaps compounded am with clay, _ _  
_ _ Do not so much as my poor name rehearse. _ _  
_ _ But let your love even with my life decay,” _

He let his eyes meet Dream’s, wide and alarmed, eyebrows raised.

_ “Lest the wise world should look into your moan _ _  
_ _ And mock you with me after I am gone.” _

The same light applause that had greeted Dream after his recitation sounded for George.

“Excellent, Mr. Verloren,” DuPre said from her desk as George sat. “Well spoken.”

Dream’s eyes followed him as he sat, crumpling his sonnet in his hand. “What was that?” 

“Shakespeare’s 71st sonnet,” George whispered. “What else?”

“You – ”

“Quiet, please,” DuPre called as the last speaker began their sonnet.

Dream sat back in his chair with a  _ hmph _ , arms folded, fingers tapping slowly on his forearm.

He pounced the second DuPre released them from class. “That was so fucking dark, George.”

“I didn’t  _ choose  _ it.”

“You had the choice to change it.”

“Why would I? It’s a good poem. I chose it at random, Dream.”

Dream shook his head. “Come on, George, let’s go eat lunch.”

George gaped, the pieces all falling together. “Are you worried about me? Is that it?”

“Shut up.”

“No, that’s it, isn’t it? You’re worried about me  _ dying _ , Dream, because I’m two years older than you!” 

“Don’t push it, George.”

George laughed, stepping on Dream’s heels as he pushed out of the building and into the pathways, wet from the rain the night before. The snow around them was melting, dripping off the branches of the trees. The frigid air bit into their skin but even this close to Dream, George could feel the warmth radiating from him. “What did Shakespeare say, Dream?  _ No longer mourn for me when I am gone? _ You don’t even have to worry about it!”

Dream gave him a little shove. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Dream’s eyes flicked over to him, dark and hooded. George’s throat tightened and when he went to inhale, he found he couldn’t pull air into his lungs. 

“Make you?” Dream’s voice was low, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You want me to  _ make  _ you shut up?”

“Stop,” George said shakily. 

“I could, if you wanted.” 

It was very quiet between them, only a few people passing by, Dream speaking softly enough that they wouldn’t be overheard. For weeks, it had been this game of teasing and pulling away between them. Cat and mouse. Offhand comments had stopped George dead in his tracks, but there was always someone around, never a moment quite alone.

“You could,” George agreed. He debated the wisdom of his next words, and said them anyway. “I would let you.”

They kept walking, Dream’s face kept staunchly neutral, his eyes locked on the path ahead.

“What else would you let me do?”

“I – ”

“Dream! George!”

George jumped away from Dream and whirled around, Sapnap approaching them from behind. “Sapnap!”

“I got the keys! I got the keys!” He waved a letter clutched in his hand. “We’re spending Christmas in Albany, baby!”

“Yes!” Dream high-fived him. “Fuck yeah. When are we heading down?”

“Day after finals,” Sapnap said, unfolding the crinkled letter. “My parents are going to be shmoozing down in Texas, and Dream – ”

“I have to go down to Manhattan on the 23rd for… promotional bullshit, I think,” Dream said slowly, his eyes flickering over to George, “but I should be back by the afternoon on Christmas Eve.”

“What kind of promotional bullshit?” George asked.

“The kind that you wouldn’t like.”

Sapnap’s eyebrows flew up. “Hold on, okay. Okay. No need to get snippy.”

“He asked,” Dream said innocently. “I wasn’t  _ snippy.” _

“We’re gonna have a  _ great  _ time at my parents’ house in Albany, we’re going to drink until we drop, and we’re going to destroy some fine china.” Sapnap threw his arms over Dream and George’s shoulders. “No mentions of anything we might have differing opinions on.”

“Can we have eggnog?” George asked.

“You’re so  _ boring _ ,” Dream groaned. 

“Yes, Georgie, of  _ course _ we can have eggnog,” Sapnap beamed, slapping George on the back. “What kind of Christmas host would I be if we didn’t have  _ eggnog?” _

“I hate eggnog.”

“We know, Dream.”

The days drew closer and closer to finals, and George had been staying up until the early morning hours studying, something that Sapnap should have gotten used to in their first year living together, but didn’t. He was constantly complaining that George left his light on too late, that all his muttering was keeping him awake. It was Sapnap’s own stress about his finals that was causing him to grouse, but that wasn’t George’s fault, so he bore the whining with grace. 

Dream travelled for one of his finals – a mock business conference paid for by the college in New York City – and looked like death warmed over when he returned. Sapnap sent him to bed immediately but unfortunately, in the one single day he had been gone, Fundy had completely taken over his bed with a popsicle stick build for an engineering course. Of course, Sapnap had graciously offered George’s bed “since he never fucking sleeps in it anymore!”

George’s very last final was a lengthy essay final for his Current Events class. They were given three hours, three essay prompts, and were expected to complete all three within the given time. He had  _ timed  _ himself writing essays about Vietnam, Martin Luther King Jr., the Kennedy assassination. He was prepared.

“Fuck,” he said, pacing up and down the dorm room, Sapnap eyeing him warily. “Fuck, I’m not prepared.”

“You just wrote three essays in the last three hours.” Dream was hunched over his work on Sapnap’s bed, rubbing his eyes. “No one is more prepared than you.”

“Fucking stop pacing, you’re stressing me out,” Sapnap snarled. “I have finals tomorrow, too.”

“Yeah, but your professors don’t have it out for you.” George stared out the window at the moon, high in the night sky. 

“You’ve gotten  _ straight  _ A’s in that class all semester.” Dream lunged forward and grabbed George’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. “There’s no way you’re gonna break that streak now.”

A knock on the door and George burst towards it, snarling, wrenching it open. “ _ What?” _

His RA was on the other side. “Call for you in the office.”

George groaned. “Great.” He waved at Dream and Sapnap and followed the RA down to the office at the end of the hallway, where the phone sat, off its hook. He picked it up. “Hello?”

_ “George, honey, how are you?” _

George squinted. “Mum?”

_ “The one and only. How are your finals?” _

“They’re fine. I have one more tomorrow and then I’m done.”

_ “Oh, that’s wonderful, sweetie. I … I have something to tell you.” _

Something began to sink in George’s stomach. “What is it?”

_ “Your grandmother… she’s – George, she’s not doing well.” _ A pregnant pause, the air tightening, choking George. _ “She’s very, very sick and we’re worried she won’t make it to the weekend.” _

“Okay.”

_ “You’re coming to England as soon as your finals are done. We’ve already purchased the plane tickets – you leave in two days from New York City. You should be here for her last days.” _

George stared at the blank wall in front of him, searing pain jabbing him through the chest. “I had plans.”

_ “With your friends, sweetie, we know. But right now your family is more important than just hanging out with some college friends for Christmas. Christmas, George.” _

“I can’t just – ”

_ “You can, and you will. We’ll send you home in time for New Years, so you can see them then.” _

George wanted to protest that no, Sapnap wouldn’t be there for New Years because he  _ would _ be with his family then, and Dream hadn’t even talked about it. But it was better than nothing. Maybe they could figure something out. “Okay.”

“ _ Alright, darling. The flight leaves at 5 PM sharp from LaGuardia on the 16th. We’ll see you there.” _ A click.

George put the phone down, his heart pounding, tears threatening the corners of his eyes. Fuck.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to everyone who's commented, left kudos, or come to talk to me on tumblr! i love hearing your thoughts and i love SO much having conversations in the comments, so don't be shy to get specific! i hope you enjoyed **chapter four, part two: the second half of 10,000 words because HOLY SHIT chapter 4 was 10,000 words long**
> 
> as always, leave a kudos if you haven't and a comment to let me know what you think! my tumblr is @princedemeter and you can talk to me there as well. see you next thursday!


	6. BURNT NORTON - only the cause and end of movement (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minecraft, but it's dark academia. In this video, we coded it so that every time we play Minecraft, it's dark academia. Will we be able to beat the game while also being gay, depressed, wearing sweater vests and talking about poetry? No.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realized that this fic may or may not take itself too seriously. i want you all to know that i do appreciate the humor of "block men, but it's dark academia." love you all lmao
> 
> this chapter (also split into two parts like the last) was really rough for me so i had like 20 betas. shout outs to light, jules, emma, beck, phantom, and reah for helping me out with this one! 
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS: mentions of war, minor alcohol use, mentions of police brutality, minor character death, and **frequent usage of homophobic slurs by straight characters.**
> 
> please enjoy George Lore.

George fidgeted in the uncomfortable seat, the fabric scratchy against the skin of his arms, looking out the window at the ocean far, far below him. The plane engine roared, and he closed his eyes, desperately trying to get some rest over the raging white noise.

Five minutes passed and he gave up, rolling his head to look back out the window again, his eyes heavy-lidded and vision blurry. His whole body was already aching from three hours of the flight already, with four still left to go.

He barely even remembered stumbling back into his and Sapnap’s dorm room, the look of alarm on Dream’s face, tossing and turning in his bed, sick with guilt for bailing on his friends and the pain of his grandmother’s ill health. The guilt that he hadn’t wanted to see her, in favor of staying with them. He had gotten no sleep.

He tried not to think about the final he had failed, miserably. The third essay was left unfinished, George’s usually neat handwriting trailing off the page, his brain shutting down from lack of sleep. Incoherent sentences, poor grammar, and names and events that he knew he had forgotten staggered their way across the essays, George desperately just trying to get it all over with. The class had been gruesome, but even worse was the look of triumph on Dr. Sharp’s face as George dragged himself out of the room in shame. 

Afterwards, Dream sat next to him on a bench, staring up at the maple tree in the center of the courtyard they had chosen. They weren’t touching, but George was close enough to smell his cologne, and underneath that, a warm, unidentifiable scent that was just  _ Dream _ . His hands were clasped together, his elbows on his knees.

_ “We’re gonna miss you,” he said. A leaf slowly floated to the ground in front of them, brown and dead. “This is so dumb.” _

_ George kicked his heel on the ground. “I know. But I can’t not go.” _

_ “We’re not telling you to stay,” Dream said. “Both Sapnap and I agreed that you need to go. We’re just gonna miss you.” _

_ “My flight home gets in at 11 PM on December 31st. At LaGuardia.” George leaned back and stared up at the gray sky. He laughed humorlessly. “Don’t suppose you have New Year’s plans, do you?” _

_ “Actually, I don’t.” There was a softness to Dream’s voice. “Sapnap’s family just wanted blood relatives there this year. And my parents are… they haven’t invited me to anything.” _

_ “Oh,” George mumbled. He bit his lips and looked up at Dream, who was already looking at him. “Would you want to celebrate New Year’s together, then? At LaGuardia International Airport?” _

_ Dream laughed, his eyes crinkling, his lips curving. “Yes, George. I’ll celebrate New Year’s 1967 with you at LaGuardia International Airport.” _

George didn’t know a single person who would willingly spend their New Year’s at LaGuardia, the nightmarish tenth circle of hell, but if Dream didn’t have anything else to do he certainly wasn’t going to stop him. George was trying very hard not to think about what that meant, that with everything Dream was, and everything he had, and everything he stood for, he still wanted to spend New Year’s Eve picking George up from the airport.

He stared out the window and let himself think about it, a little rushing ache pulsing its way through his heart.

George drifted in and out of a murky sleep, the curtain by the window fluttering with the air circulation against his face. He smelled the warm bread and lemon-zested chicken the pilot had advertised at the start of the flight. The stewardess might have asked him if he wanted dinner but he must have said no. His head rattled against the bulkhead as they churned through the clouds, turbulence making him grip his armrest a little tighter and open his eyes to the cool dark. 

He sighed and checked the time. 11:37 PM.

Fuck. He was switching time zones. Reluctantly, he wound his watch forward, until it read 4:37 AM. That was even worse.

He wondered, absently, who was going to pick him up from the airport. His mother hadn’t mentioned anything, and the Verloren family was not a family of early risers. Kathleen was the only person George could think of who would willingly sacrifice sleep for another person, but his mother had mentioned nothing about her only daughter in their phone call. George didn’t even know if she was  _ in _ London yet.

His head thumped against the back of his chair, and he closed his eyes. It was going to be okay. He only had his messenger bag and suitcase, and if it came down to it George was an expert in the London cab. He could exchange currency in the airport and take a taxi to his grandmother’s house. He still had the address memorized from his time there as a boy and it rattled around in his head.  _ 142 Berner St, London, UK. _

_ “What’s the address again?” _

_ “Gramps, I’ve already said it!”  _

_ “Oh, you’ve got to remind me, I’m a little slow these days.” _

_ “142 Berner St, London, UK!” George squealed as his grandfather picked him up and swung him around. “Put me down!” _

_ “Now you’re on the trolley, Georgie!” _

How his grandfather had gotten married to his grandmother, George would never know. How they managed to have  _ four children _ together was an even greater mystery. He had been a burly man with a beer belly and an incongruously reedy laugh, but his smile wrinkled the stark crow’s feet next to his eyes and his hands were gentle. He wasn’t a man made for the city, but he had moved there to appease his wife. 

George remembered his funeral in bits and pieces: everyone dressed in black, his six-year-old eyes raised to the blue ceiling, the casket dark and ominous at the altar. He hadn’t approached it. In hindsight, he was glad; his memories of Robert Verloren were warm, filled with giddy happiness and the innocence of youth, big hands lifting him onto broad shoulders, pulling on the thin hair with his chubby hands and the harsh response of pain. He wasn’t sure how the cold of the funeral would have tainted those memories. He kept them in a special place, scooped out like a little secret hideout next to his heart.

The plane approached the runway, the sun only faintly beginning to rise over the horizon, the sky fading to brightness. They touched down roughly, George jolting in his seat, and feeling the tension on the plane lower as the lights flickered brighter and the clicking of seatbelts began to sound from around him.

They slowed to a stop, the terminal entrance extending to the front of the plane and here and there, people began to stand and stretch. George rubbed his legs, which had gone numb with discomfort throughout the flight, and stood. His knee crumpled below him and he fell back into his seat, pins and needles sparking up his muscles.

George used the seat to push himself upwards, balancing unsteadily on his legs. They felt like the numb that comes with cold, felt like the plane was still in the air, still moving, George’s hands grasping for something to hold so he wouldn’t fall. 

Slowly, as if it weighed a thousand kilos, he picked up his foot and let it down again. One at a time. He rubbed the heels of his palms up and down his legs and his mind traveled to its favorite place. 

_ “I’ve only taken an airplane once. Is it terrible?” _

_ “It’s horrible. I hate heights,” Dream groaned. “Send a postcard to Sapnap’s house when you land so we know you’re not dead.” _

_ “I’m not going to die, Dream.” _

_ “No, it’s in the hope that you do. If we don’t hear from you in two weeks, we’ll know that all our prayers were answered.” Sapnap grinned at George and winked. _

_ George punched him. “Fuck off.” _

The London Airport –  _ Heathrow _ , George had to remind himself – was vast and sprawling, terminals spread so far apart there were buses to transport travellers between them. Lost, George turned on his heel, trying to find anything, a sign, help,  _ anything _ , that would take him to the baggage claim. It was only just waking up, the few people around George mostly sleepy-eyed businessmen and harried parents dragging whining children behind them. When he finally found a help desk, the sign hanging outside of it said  _ Open at 0800 _ .

George swore and a nearby mother shot him a dirty look. 

He took a bus, walked, took another bus, begrudgingly asked a worker for help, was pointed in the direction he’d come from, snagged a tacky postcard from a brightly-colored tourist shop, took a third bus, and almost fell down a flight of stairs. Finally, he stepped onto an escalator and leaned on the rail, sighing in relief as an enormous  _ Baggage Claim  _ sign came into view. 

Apparently, everyone else on his flight had known exactly where to go, because his was the only bag left on the slow-moving carousel. He pulled it off and walked out into the cold, wet London air.

“George!”

George sighed in relief as he turned to see a woman pushing herself off of a black Ford Anglia, her heels clicking on the sidewalk. 

“Hi, Kath,” he said, enveloping her in a hug. “It’s been a while.”

“And whose fault is that?” his sister asked, giving him a shove. “You were the one who didn’t visit, didn’t write, didn’t  _ call _ – ”

“The fees, Kathleen – ”

“Oh, please. I don’t understand this ridiculous insistence you have on not using family money. It’s  _ family  _ money.”

“Mum and Father can keep it. I have my savings.  _ They _ understand. You don’t have to.”

Kathleen tutted. “So abrasive.” She swung the passenger side door open. “Get in, Gogy.”

George rolled his eyes. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Oh, you’ll have to deal with that the  _ whole  _ time,” Kathleen snorted, starting the car. “Craig has been non-stop about it. Gogy, Gogy, Gogy. His friends think that’s your actual name.”

“His friends must not have critical thinking skills.”

“Oh, they don’t. But he brings them ‘round every night for Aunt Carol’s cooking because they’re starving little street urchins.”

George pitched his voice high. “ _ Please, sir, I want some more! _ ”

Kathleen laughed and rolled down the window as they pulled onto the parkway, her hairspray holding strong against the wind. “How’s college treating you, then?”

George told her the basics of his classes, lauded how well he did on his finals and how much he had studied, and specifically didn’t mention one of them. 

“And Eret came up for my birthday, as well.”

Kathleen shook her head. “I don’t know, George, Eret’s always seemed a little  _ odd  _ to me. You know Father thinks he’s a poof?”

“Father thinks everyone he doesn’t like is a poof.” George rolled his eyes. “You know he came to me once, completely convinced Uncle Charlie was a homo?”

“Uncle Charlie? And his three wives? Was he drunk?”

George tucked his chin into his chest and imitated Kenneth Verloren’s low, grumbly voice. “That one’s overcompensating. He wants us to think he’s one of us so he tries too hard. He doesn’t have a  _ real _ man’s hands.” 

Kathleen collapsed over the steering wheel at a red light, giggling. “Okay, fine. I’ll take it. Uncle Charlie and his three wives, a poof.”

If Charles Verloren was a gay man, he was a sad one. Three wives that all hated him and a deathly boring job as a retail manager had turned him into something of a recluse. He had never been any fun to begin with, but they still invited him to family functions. George expected to see him at the funeral, sitting hunched over at the end of a pew, miserable and greasy.

Kathleen pulled into a parking space at the end of Berner Street, turning off the car and unbuckling her seatbelt. “You’re finally home, George.”

“Home is where the heart is,” George sang, unable to keep the scorn out of his voice. 

“Don’t be a dickhead.” Kathleen stretched as she got out of the car. “Okay?”

He tried to make his voice lighthearted. “No promises.”

Judging by the expression on Kathleen’s face, he’d failed. 

Kathleen turned the key in the lock and opened the door, the low light warm against the blue and gray of the clouds outside.

George stepped inside and was immediately transported back. The lights used to be brighter. The bulbs in the chandelier used to work, and they were big. The stained glass above the door was dusty, the light trapped inside, the plaster of the walls cracking. A picture frame, an official photograph of the whole family, taken a month before his grandfather’s death – George moved closer and peered at it. His hair was lighter when he was young, almost blonde, and he was seated on his grandfather’s knee.

He moved forward, out of the entryway and into the parlor. To his left, the living room, and immediately in front of him, a grand staircase six feet wide that curved up to the upper floor. Quiet conversation sounded from the dining room to his right, the windows at the far end letting in the most light from the backyard, slowly moving under the shadow of the trees.

“George, darling.” His mother moved forward, smiling genially, hands reaching towards him. “It’s so nice to see you.”

“Hi, Mum.” George bent his head as she kissed him through his hair. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” 

George moved back to look at her. Helen Verloren was aging slowly, with grace and style. There was a gray streak in her hair he didn’t recognize, new wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. Spots along her hairline. She was still beautiful, still pristine.

“Kathleen, dear, why don’t you show George to his room?” she asked, peering over George at her daughter. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to be there.”

“Oh, where will I be staying?” George asked, adjusting his sweaty hand on the suitcase handle and turning to Kathleen as Helen busied herself with fixing a setting on the dining room table. 

“You’ll be in your old room,” Kathleen said, leading him through the dining room. “Well, the room you and Craig used to share. He’s living with his flatmates in South Bank, so you won’t have to deal with his snoring.”

George quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing as he followed his sister through the kitchen and into the back hallway, the staircase creaky and small, curling down into the basement. It was dark down there, smelled like mothballs, and George wrinkled his nose as he pushed open the door to a room barely bigger than a storage closet.

“Grandma’s room is right down the hallway, so people will be walking around to check on her and make sure she eats,” Kathleen said, pointing to the darkest end of the hallway. “I suppose if you want you could go in and say hello.”

George nodded, preoccupied with wrestling his suitcase into a corner of the room where it would be out of the way.

“I’m pretty sure Mum said that everything in the kitchen was free reign, but we don’t really expect you to feed yourself, so lunch is at twelve every day. We’ve decided to continue Grandma’s tea time, so that’s at 2:30. And supper is set for 6:00.”

“It’s worse than a class schedule,” George muttered, and Kathleen whacked him across his head.

“Oi,” she said. “I heard that.” 

“Good to know you have functioning ears.”

“And I’ve been so kind to you today.” Kathleen leaned against the doorframe. “At least you have your choice of bunk. Remember when Craig – ”

“I don’t want to,” George snapped, cutting her off. “Please. I had a long flight. I’d like to sleep.”

“Okay.” Kathleen raised her hands in surrender. “Fine. Lunch is at twelve, George. Don’t be late.”

“Won’t.” George waved her out the door and as soon as she was gone, collapsed onto the bottom bunk.

He brought his hands up to his face and rubbed his eyes so hard he could hear them squish in his skull. Let himself sit there for a second, dull light filtering in through the tiny window above him. 

He opened up his bag and removed the postcard he’d snatched from the tourist stand in the airport, studying the goofy rendition of Big Ben on the front, the tiny space on the back. What the fuck was he supposed to tell Dream and Sapnap?

He pulled out a pen and scribbled a quick note, put the postcard on the nightstand, and fell backwards onto the quilt, his eyes closing and sinking into sleep almost immediately.

_ Dream & Sapnap – _

_ I landed. Sorry I’m not dead, I know you were hoping for a different outcome. Maybe I’ll send more cards while I’m here, but for now this is all you get. Happy Christmas and I’ll see you in ‘67. _

_ George _

He sat in the chair next to his grandmother’s bed and listened to her shallow breaths, her sleep mutterings, the silence of a dying woman.

“Hello,” he said, and the word descended in the air and broke apart into fragments. “Hi, Grandma.”

She did not respond.

“Kathleen told me I should say goodbye.”

He bit the inside of his cheek and tried to figure out what to say. She couldn’t hear him. And he realized – this didn’t have to be for her. This was for him. 

“Goodbye, I guess. You never treated me very well, but I’m still sad to see you go. I’ll miss you.” No, he wouldn’t. “No, I won’t. I didn’t miss you when I was away and I won’t miss you when you’re dead.” 

Tears pressed at the backs of his eyes and he felt his throat tighten. “I am losing my childhood, when you go, Grandma. You and Grandpa – that was growing up. Everything before I was a teenager happened here. Craig pushed me off the top bunk in that room, right over there, and I broke my arm. I met Eret on this street. I – you – ”

He breathed, very slowly and very carefully.

“Do you remember when we went on vacation to Scotland? All of us? And we had that house on the water and you spent your time drinking tea and whiskey on the front porch, on the rocking chair? I stayed inside reading for most of it. And Kathleen and Craig and all of them sat out there with you and listened to your stories and talked to you.

“Maybe that’s why you never liked me, because I never liked you. I spent one afternoon on that porch with you because everyone else went out hiking and I didn’t want to and you couldn’t because of your knee. And you told me about your girlhood, how London used to smell, and the day you went to the theater with Grandpa for your first date.

“I should have spent more time with you. Less with my books. Maybe then I would have understood you. But – but I’m at college, a good one, and I feel like I’m doing what’s right for me, and maybe that’s  _ because _ I spent so much time alone, reading and writing and studying. I’m  _ proud _ of myself. I’m proud of how I think. I’m proud to –”

He took a sharp breath in, stood, and wrenched open the door to her bedroom. The house was quiet, still. No one in the hallway, no one puttering around in the kitchen. 

He closed it. There was no one here. She couldn’t hear him, and she was gone soon. He was safe.

“There’s a boy, Grandma, and I feel – I feel in that sort of way that’s – unspeakable.” He twisted his fingers together. “No words for it, nothing like a simple world where you like a girl and you ask her on a date and you kiss at the end of the night. It’s never going to be that simple, it’s never going to be like you and Grandpa, like Mum and Dad, like Aunt Carol and Uncle Teddy. It’s never going to be that easy for me, because I – because I – ”

He dropped his head into his hands and waited for his breathing to slow. “Eret tried to make me say it, and I never could. Is it ever going to get better? Am I ever going to be able to scream it out loud, in a crowd of people? Can I kiss him at the movies? Can I hold his hand at the grocer? Do you think that’s too much to ask of the world? Can I love him?”

It hit him like a truck, his final question.  _ Can I love him. I love him. Love him. _

He shook his head. “I don’t. Not yet. But I want to.”

All of this, all of Eret, trying to make him comfortable in his world, helping him want without disgust, and he still couldn’t get over it. This barrier, this wall. He wanted to scream.

“I love you, Grandma. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better grandson.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her wrinkly forehead, her breathing unchanging. “Good-bye.”

Clara Verloren passed away from pneumonia and complications from multiple sclerosis at some point during the night of December 19th. George woke in the morning to a fist pounding on his door and opened it to his mother collapsing into his arms, sobbing and gasping for breath. Something in George’s chest fell, closed, and locked forever.

“She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s so cold.”

It was all she could say.  _ She’s gone. She’s so cold. _

Slowly, the family trickled downstairs, first Kathleen, and his father, and his aunt and uncle. The hallway lights flickered on, George closed the door to his room, and then they all stood there, unsure of the next step, words uncertain, meaningless, quiet weeping filling the air like rain. George’s father gripped his arm, his knuckles white, face creased and mouth still. His mother and Kathleen held each other, crying quietly as the sun rose and settled gold over them, the angled window above the stairs finally casting rays down the length of the hallway.

“It’s her,” his mother said, her hand shadowed on the floor. “She’s saying good-bye.”

The sun was in George’s eyes, too bright for him to see much else. 

In the end, his father began the preparations. He called the hospice, told them not to send a caretaker for the day, and then the funeral home, and they all trickled upstairs. Kathleen put the kettle on and set out a few teacups. Their mother called Craig and told him to come to the house, her voice thick and choked as she tried to get the words out. The kettle started whistling, and George and Kathleen rushed to the kitchen, George pouring the tea leaves and Kathleen the hot water.

“I’ll make more,” she rasped. “For Craig, and Uncle Charlie, and Uncle Kris. When they get here.”

They sat around the table in the center of the living room and drank their tea in silence. A car pulled up out front and George peered out the window. A man in a suit emerged from the driver’s side, and a priest from the passenger’s.

“Who is it, Georgie?”

George turned back, his mouth opening and closing, unable to form words. “It’s…”

A knock on the door.

George remembered the rest of the day in bits and pieces. The scalding tea, the coroner pronouncing her dead, the priest holding his mother, Craig’s car peeling around the corner and his enormous form running up the driveway, his face heartbroken and despairing, watching EMTs carefully cover his grandmother’s body in a black tarp and drive her away. Making calls, arrangements with the funeral home, flower companies, crying, drinking tea, barely having the energy to make a sandwich. Craig screaming in George’s face that he didn’t care, he never loved her, he was a terrible grandson. Kathleen clung to his arm, tears streaming down her face, begging him to stop. Craig was raging in his devastation, George, his little brother, the brunt of his attacks. 

Eventually, Craig collapsed into a couch, sobbing into his hands and George quietly left to nurse his wounds in his room, staring at a blank notebook page, wishing desperately he was anywhere but here.

_ Dream and Sapnap, _

_ FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! _

He crossed it out and tried again.

_ Dear Dream and Sapnap, _

_ I am upset _

Try again.

_ My friends, _

_ My grandmother has died. _

He tore the page out of the notebook and closed his eyes, trying to collect himself.

_ So she’s dead. Don’t really know what to do, but it kind of sucks. Wish you were here. Wish I was with you. I said goodbye, but she was asleep. It was okay. I got some stuff out. Whatever. _

_ Sorry to write so soon after the postcard. Probably this won’t even get to you before I get back. Maybe that means I can say whatever I want. Sapnap, let’s fight. Dream can be the referee. The problem is that you’ll win because I’m a twig. It’s the principle of the thing.  _

He leaned back and let himself laugh a little, and soon it turned into tears, his breaths hitching, choking, gasping, and he curled into himself and let the tears fall. 

The following day dawned rainy and miserable and saw the arrival of George’s least favorite relatives. Uncle Charlie slouched in, followed by his third wife, (Julie, or Jennifer? Maybe an Elizabeth?) who looked like she wanted to be anywhere but there. She clutched her faux mink coat close to her bosom and peered with beady eyes around the house, her nose wrinkling every time she saw an occupant. 

His mother grasped her hand, led her to the living room and proffered a cup of tea, hospitable to her last nerve, and Julie, or Jennifer, or possibly Elizabeth, smiled wanly and placed the teacup as far away from her person as she possibly could. Helen simpered and smiled, her eyes unchangingly hard, and gave the second cup to Charlie, who scalded his mouth. 

“Helen, this is just too hot.” He put it down. “I like my tea lukewarm.”

George watched as his mother gasped. “Oh, of course! I’m so sorry. Let me just – ” She placed the cup on the coffee table. “Put this here, and then you can wait until it’s just the right temperature for you.”

Julie, or Jennifer, or Elizabeth, sneered, but Charlie gave his best attempt at a smile. “Of course. Thank you. Lizzie, dear?”

So it  _ was  _ Elizabeth. George moved away from the doorframe as Helen bustled out, her spine arched inwards, prideful and haughty.

“George!” she called, catching his eye. “Why don’t you go help Kenneth with the will? I’m sure he’ll take all the help he can get.”

“But I thought Craig – ”

“ _ Now. _ ”

George entered his father’s temporary study, which was really the house library but with a desk and some chair, to see Craig leaning over Kenneth’s shoulder, squinting at the tiny text of his grandmother’s will, pointing to words and muttering them under his breath.

“What the fuck is a codicil?”

George cleared his throat. “Um. Hi.”

Craig looked up sharply, his father following suit, removing his glasses and peering at George. Under the low lamplight, their eyes were exactly the same. “George,” Kenneth said. “How can I help you today?”

“Mum said to come help you with the will, since, uh, since you’re the execu–”

“We don’t need your  _ help _ .” Craig spit the words at him.

“Craig,” Kenneth warned. “George can be of some help. We haven’t got the board here, because it’s not  _ legal _ . And I know that you’re not attending your classes at Oxford.”

Craig’s mouth twisted. “Yes, father.”

“Otherwise, you’d know what a codicil was.”

“Yes, father.”

“George, what’s a codicil?”

It was an addendum, basically, to add, or subtract something from the will. He’d literally learned it from quizzing Dream for a Law 101 class. 

George glanced at Craig’s face, his mortification poorly hidden. “I, uh, I don’t know.”

Kenneth tsked and put his glasses back on. “A shame. A codicil is an addition or supplement that explains, modifies, or revokes a will or part of one.”

“It’s as if you memorized the dictionary,” Craig muttered.

Kenneth turned a page in the will. “Something that would do you some good.” 

The door downstairs slammed and they all turned to the hallway, expressions identical in alarm. Clunky footsteps in high heels sounded loudly on the stairs, slow and steady, a march of death. 

Kenneth’s face paled. “Constance.”

Constance Verloren appeared in the doorway, all 12 stone of her, standing only to George’s shoulder. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a hideous knot, dress patterned with ugly gray circles, lashes absurdly long for her face.

“How is the will going, Ken?”

“I’m only through the first – ”

“And you’ve got these fuckin’ jokers here to help you as well.” Aunt Constance grabbed George’s chin and pulled him down horrifically close to her face, eyes scanning him. “This one’s a fool. You can see it in those bland, thoughtless eyes. He’ll be of no use to you.”

She released George and headed for Craig. George rubbed his chin.

“And  _ this _ one.” This time, she had to jump to grab Craig’s chin, her thumb pressing so hard into his ruddy skin it turned white around the edges. “This one’s got even less brains. Killed ‘em all off getting into the liquor cabinet, huh boy?”

“I didn’t – ”

“Not even the common decency to realize when not to speak. Kenneth, you’ve done a mighty shite job of raising these boys. Where’s that darling daughter you’ve got? She’s got a nice head on her shoulders.”

“Kathleen is helping Helen in the kitchen.”

Constance threw up her hands and paced around the room. “Oh! Helen! Terrible bitch you chose for yourself, Ken. Then again, you’ve always had bad taste.”

“Connie, I always wish you’d swear just a little less.”

“Oh, piss off. It’s as if dear old mum never washed your mouth out with soap a couple times.”

Kenneth pulled off his glasses and rubbed his face. “She’s been dead for less than 48 hours, Constance. Have a little respect.”

“What respect? She’s dead. How terrible for her, and even  _ worse  _ for us, because now we have to bloody deal with it.” She nodded to the will. “Show me.”

George slumped into the uncomfortable wooden chair in the corner of the office, watching as his aunt spoke over his father and argued. “No,  _ I  _ should be the one getting the mounted swords. I’m the eldest, Kenneth, and if you can’t respect that – ”

“I  _ am  _ respecting it, but it’s  _ law _ that it goes to Charlie – ”

“Charlie doesn’t deserve anything  _ close _ to that gorgeous piece, I don’t know what the hell the old bat was thinking – ”

Craig began to try to edge out of the room. Constance whipped her head around to face him. “I see you there, boy. Don’t try to fool me. I’ve been omniscient since before you were even a  _ concept.” _

Kenneth turned scarlet. “ _ CONNIE.” _

“You’re right, Ken, I’m not omniscient. Otherwise, I would know what the  _ bloody _ hell my mother was thinking when she gave that weaselly looking rat bastard the sword piece.”

“She probably thought you would try and use the swords on someone.”

“Don’t talk back to me.”

Dinner, many long and arduous hours later, was dreadful. George had been terrified for the evening all day, because it was the first time all of his father’s siblings  _ and  _ their spouses had been together since he was thirteen. It was bound to be a fiasco.

His father was three glasses of wine in and did not look to be stopping. “And that goddamn  _ poof _ Wilson and his new union laws – you know we have to pay those bastards  _ twice _ the rate we used to? It’s going to sink the bloody company – ”

“Oh, whine, whine, whine. I’m sure you’ll find a way to get around it. You know the board – ”

“The board is a bunch of no-good pillocks that want to see me  _ choke and die – _ ”

Charlie was droning on to Helen and Elizabeth about the newest minute changes in store policy: 

“They’d like for us to answer the phone differently, apparently. See, the way we used to do it…”

Helen, bright-eyed and smiling, ate mechanically. Elizabeth had her head in her hand and stared at her food, moping and pushing it around on her plate.

Over on the other side, Craig was boring Kathleen and George to death, nattering on about  _ rugby,  _ of all things:

“But I’m saying, Kathleen, St. Helens is the team to beat this year. They absolutely  _ murdered  _ the Leigh Centurions, and they’re set to play Bradford Northern soon. I mean  _ sure _ , Northern beat Warrington 12-6, but you can’t deny their lineup is just not as good as – ”

“Will you _please_ _shut up,”_ Kathleen snarled, her eyes bright with murder. “We don’t _care.”_ She drained the rest of her glass of wine. “Oh – Aunt Carol! Is there any more wine?”

“Unfortunately not,” Carol said, stopping by Kathleen’s chair on her way to the kitchen. She stroked a hand down Kathleen’s dark hair. “I’m sorry, darling. I bought a whole case, but it looks like it wasn’t enough.”

“That woman is the only good person in this family.” Kathleen took a bite of her salmon. “I don’t know how the rest of you all turned out so rotten. We need more wine.”

Craig jingled his keys in his hand. “Well, I need to get out of this fucking house and away from the stench of  _ him.” _ He nodded at Uncle Charlie. “George, you’re coming with me for brother bonding time.”

“I don’t want  _ brother bonding time –  _ ”

“Too bad, because you’re too much of a pushover to do anything about it. Come on.”

Maybe he was. It was always easier to swim with the current than against it, and George was already going upstream back home.

Back home. Since when had he started thinking of Mulbrang as home?

“George.” Fingers snapped in front of his face and George looked up, startled. “Fucking come with me.”

“Language at the dinner table,” Helen called, her eyes not moving from Charlie’s sallow face, pretending to be interested in whatever he said. 

“I’m not  _ at _ the dinner table, I’m standing up,” Craig snapped.

“Don’t talk to your mother like that.” Kenneth sounded tired, glaring at Constance as she smirked right back

“I’ll talk however I want.”

“Young man,” Kenneth said, rising slowly, “you will  _ not _ speak to me like that in my own house!”

“Well, it’s not your house, is it?” Craig snapped. “It’s Grandma’s, and she’s fucking  _ dead!” _

Silence fell, Craig staring at his hands, Kenneth staring at Craig in shock and horror, and everyone else looking anywhere but the two of them. 

Carol returned with a quiche in hand. “Would anybody… like … some quiche?” She trailed off, looking around the room with wide eyes. “Did I miss something?”

Craig snarled something unintelligible and stormed out the door, grabbing George by the arm and pulling him along.

“I feel like you’re the only fucking person in there who gets it,” he growled, wrenching the car door open. “The rest of those fuckers – I don’t know. We gotta wait until the cousins arrive. But they weren’t here, you know? They weren’t fucking here.”

“Earlier today you told me I never loved her and that I was never the favorite grandson,” George said slowly, Craig turning the key furiously in the ignition and the car rumbling. 

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean it,” Craig shrugged. “Well, I did. You weren’t the favorite grandson. Actually, I think she hated you. But she hated me, too. So we’re even.”

“What are you talking about?” George said. “She loved you.”

Craig’s jaw clenched and his unblinking eyes focused on the road, eyebrows furrowed. “Nah. Maybe she pretended to. But she ignored me when it was just us two. Like I wasn’t even there. Only ever paid attention to me in company.”

George turned it over and over in his mind, trying to fit it with his memories. Craig really had wanted her attention so badly. After the death of their grandfather, Robert, who had time and time again favored George, Craig spent all his time with their grandmother, who had never been nearly as nice, but he clamored for her to notice him, gave her little school projects, followed her around like a lost puppy. Even as he aged into his angsty teen years, he had never grown out of wanting to be her favorite. 

And George suddenly realized – he had never seen them actually spend time together. She had never put him to bed. Never sat on the front porch and sat in rocking chairs with him. Never baked with him.

She hadn’t done any of those things with George, either. But at least George, for a few golden years, had Robert.

They pulled up in front of the liquor store. Craig tossed George the keys. “Stay in the car. I’m going to get us some more wine.”

“Wait,” George heard himself say as he scrambled out. “I want to pick out a bottle.”

Craig raised his eyebrows. (He had never been able to raise just one, no matter how hard he tried.) “Do you even drink?”

“Yes,” George protested. “But I thought we were here for brotherly bonding time.”

Craig stared at George for a second, and then punched him in the shoulder. “Shut the fuck up. What is this, an emotional scene where we shed tears like a couple of poofs and cry into each other’s arms like on the telly? Fucking come and buy booze with me.”

It was a stark reminder of the wall that stood between them, that would always stand between them, that George would never cross. 

“You shut up,” he said, and followed Craig into the store.

It was sunny the day of the funeral.

Three days of stress, shouting, pain, torrential downpours, and a lot of drinking led to George, Craig, and Kathleen standing hand in hand in front of the funeral home, distant relatives and friends of friends slowly filing in, dressed in mourning black and offering their deepest condolences.

“They didn’t even know her,” Craig grumbled.

“They’re allowed to celebrate her life,” Kathleen answered, nudging him with her elbow. “Just like us.” 

They were silent for a long moment, black clothes warm in the beaming sunlight, the cold air sharp in contrast

“Do you think she’s here?” Craig asked, his voice quiet.

Kathleen shrugged. “I’d like to see my own funeral.” 

George snorted and Kathleen giggled at her own joke. “I don’t know,” she continued. “I hope that she’s here, watching us cry over her corpse.” George felt her squeeze his and Craig’s hand as she took a step forward. “I know she’s proud of all three of us.”

The entryway to the funeral home was small, a wall of gleaming gold plaques with names in front of them that they ignored. Through an archway immediately to their right was an open space with large windows, sheer curtains covering them. Along the walls were pillars, large vases filled with lilies set on top of them. It smelled floral, sweet, almost overwhelming. Crowds of people dressed in black milled around, waiting to speak to the four Verloren siblings. 

In front of the main hall, there they stood: Constance the elder, Charlie the sallow, Kenneth the executor, Carol the kind.

“Like four monarchs,” Kathleen said, her eyes cast along the four of them, their shoulders back and chins high – except for Charlie, who slouched and didn’t look at anyone else. She amended her statement. “Three monarchs and… someone else.”

“They’re doing the most work,” George said. “I wouldn’t want to be there.”

“You think it’s work?” Kathleen raised an eyebrow.

“They’re both being comforted by others and trying to comfort others. As if anyone actually feels comforted here,” George scoffed under his breath. “Who’s this for?”

“ _ Grandma,”  _ Craig said, scandalized.

George shook his head. “She’s dead. She – hello?”

“Georgie.” A wizened old woman grasped his hand, her voice droning and rattling. “It’s been so long. You look like an ice lolly.”

“Uh. Great-Aunt Katherine,” George said, trying to extract his hand from her vice-like grip. “Hello.”

“Terrible thing, Clara,” Great-Aunt Katherine said, shaking her head. “Always thought I’d die first, but here we are and I’m still waiting.” She released George’s hand to pat Kathleen’s arm. “Kathleen, oh, darling. You were almost named after me.” She tilted her head to study Kathleen’s face. “Still not as beautiful as your mother.”

She turned her gaze on Craig. “You handsome boy. How my nephew could turn out a fine young man like you is beyond me. Terrible, rat-like thing.” She shook a finger at him. “Never liked Charlie.”

“...Kenneth,” Craig said slowly. “My father is Kenneth.”

Great-Aunt Katherine looked at the three of them. “Siblings?”

They nodded.

“Well, you wouldn’t know it by just looking at you.”

Helen appeared out of nowhere. “My dear Katherine!”

“Miranda, my darling.”

“That’s – ” Craig began.

Helen’s eyes turned on him in a look of focused ire. “Children, why don’t you mingle? Greet your relatives. It’ll make you feel better.” 

“As if – ”

_ “Greet your relatives.  _ Ah, Peter! You remember my children.”

Helen led Great-Aunt Katherine tottering off into the crowd as a weedy man who must have been Peter enthusiastically shook their hands. “Terrible, terrible misfortune. What a woman, what a life. She really was a force to be reckoned with – ”

He talked and George felt his eyes glazing over. He glanced at Kathleen, whose mouth was fixed in an awkward smile. She met George’s eyes and shook her head slightly. She didn’t know him either.

“...and my goodness, the things she had to put up with! Her husband, for one, and his no-good friends. I respect all human life, of course, but it’s not so horrid how early they all died –  _ terrible _ influences on that relationship. And of course, those blasted excuses for her first two children, why – ”

Craig was the first to slip away, citing an excuse of seeing a long-distant cousin. Peter turned his full attention onto Kathleen and George, and George sighed. 

“Now, perhaps she would have been able to salvage her relationship with her book club if – ”

“Are you her biographer or something?” George asked. “How do you know so much?”

“Why, I never! You little – ”

It was only Kathleen’s sharp eye that got them out. “Claire!”

Kathleen turned to Peter, her eyes bright. “So sorry, Peter, but George and I have to greet our cousin. I –  _ we  _ haven’t seen her in ages!”

She dragged George away. “You ought to thank me. If Mum finds out how you spoke to a guest, you’ll be in so much –  _ Claire!” _

A girl with stiff blonde hair threw herself at Kathleen, wrapping her arms tightly around her and squeezing her. “ _ Kathy!”  _ Her brazen Scottish accent rang in George’s ears. “I’m so, so, glad to see you. This funeral shite is boring as all hell.”

“I know,” Kathleen groaned. “I’ve missed you! How’s Aberdeen?”

“Ugh,  _ beautiful.  _ Walking around campus is like a dream come true.” They released each other, and Claire turned to see George standing next to Kathleen. Her face dropped like a stone. “Oh. Hello, George.”

“Hello, Claire,” George said, waving and regretting it.

“How are you doing?” The smile on her face was pitiful.

“I’m well. How are you?”

“I’m very good.”

George motioned with his thumb. “I’m going inside the main hall. See you in there, I suppose.”

“See you,” Claire said, and immediately turned back to Kathleen.

They began talking again, quietly, but not so quietly George couldn’t hear them. “Sorry about that. He’s not gotten any better, you know…”

George shook it off and pushed the door to the funeral hall open.

A line of people stretched down the center aisle, each of them taking their time with the casket. George joined the queue and looked around the room, hoping for something, anything that would occupy his time.

The people in front of him eventually turned around to try to make conversation – an elderly couple who went to brunch with her once a month. George let it all breeze past him. They shook his hand and eventually found someone else, someone more interesting, to speak to.

George felt the familiar feeling of shame build in his spine first, and then his stomach, and then his hands. He took deep breaths to try and stave it off but it turned yellow and brown and rotted and he hunched his shoulders and tried not to look at anyone.

_ “You have terrible posture, you know.” _

_ George rolled his eyes and hugged his knees tighter, curled into ball on Eret’s couch. “I don’t really mind. It’s not like I’m much of an athlete anyway.” _

_ “I’m not talking about athletics.” Eret stood from his kitchen table and walked over. “You hold yourself like you don’t want anyone to see you.” _

_ “Maybe I don’t.” _

_ Eret sat down next to him on the couch. He was quiet for a moment, contemplative.  _

_ “Come to the protest with me tomorrow. I’m driving.” _

_ “The protest?” _

_ Eret nodded. “It’s in Cambridge. Have you heard about what’s going on?” _

_ George shook his head. “I haven’t been keeping up with the news.” _

_ Eret grabbed a folded up newspaper and flipped a few pages. “Here. They tried to bury it, because they don’t want us to know.” He pointed to an article. “Read this.” _

It was George’s first protest. He was fifteen, surrounded by a crowd of students, most of them only a few years older than him, singing, proud, standing tall. He had also watched as the men at the front of the crowd were beaten, arrested. Eret was lost somewhere, swallowed by the writhing mass of scared students. George grabbed someone’s arm – a stranger, a man no taller and no older than him, and they locked arms and planted their feet. George saw it then: the wild look in the other man’s eyes, the terror and the steadfast strength, his jaw clenched. 

That day, George realized much later, something began to storm inside him, and it never went away. 

He reached the casket and stared down at Clara Verloren’s waxy skin, and wondered why he was there.

_ “You have terrible posture,”  _ Eret said in his memory. 

George straightened his spine and let his hands relax at his sides. “I’ve said everything I have to say to you.” He felt his breath leave his lungs in a rush and closed his eyes. “Good-bye.”

He walked away and sat at the end of a pew, looking towards the ceiling, a glass pane in the center open to the sky, the sun streaming through.

The funeral faded in and out. George’s father gave a eulogy, the organ played something horrific and deadly slow, and the pallbearers, including Craig, walked in a grim plod down the aisle, Clara Verloren’s coffin on their shoulders.

They stood around the grave and watched as she was buried, dirt slowly piling onto the shiny top of the coffin. Many wept; a priest droned on about God, and George soaked in the good weather. 

Carol had organized the wake at the Verloren house after the funeral and already a few people were mingling when George and his siblings arrived. Slowly, friends and family members trickled in. Helen was patting the arm of a far-distant older cousin; Kathleen latched onto Claire’s arm; Kenneth was consoling a distraught Constance, who had decided that it was finally time to mourn and make a scene.

George stood in the corner near the television, a few of his relatives that he barely spoke to near him, watching the final  _ Thunderbirds  _ episode play. George had never seen the program, but his cousin Klaus, who was seven, was deeply invested, his eyes glued to the screen, his body twitching at every movement. 

A lengthy action scene began, the music building dramatically, and George, already bored, turned away and scanned the room for anyone to talk to, any food to eat, or anything to do that would mean he wouldn’t have to deal with  _ Thunderbirds’ _ weird puppets and incredibly boring plot.

As  _ Thunderbirds  _ went to commercial, Klaus’ father reached down and turned the dial. The screen switched to the news, and everything went downhill. 

_ “Today in Manhattan. The Gaumort family eats dinner with United States Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara, with Henry Gaumort later meeting with Mr. McNamara to discuss the war in Vietnam and how best to keep the country safe. Mr. Gaumort, the CEO and mastermind behind the Southern Manufacturing Production Company, has a message that he would like to broadcast to all civilized countries of the world.” _

It flickered to an image of Henry Gaumort standing with one hand on his wife’s shoulder and one on Dream’s. Two younger children, a boy and a girl, stood in front of Dream, their faces serious. Dream’s hair was pulled back taut enough that you couldn’t tell it was long, he wasn’t wearing his glasses, and his suit was neat and pressed. He had his arms wrapped around the younger children’s shoulders, and George knew him well enough to know that his knuckles were white, his grip iron.

It was the first time, George realized, he’d ever seen Dream’s siblings.

_ “Communism,” _ Henry Gaumort began, his voice filled with weight and authority, “ _ is a villain that looms over our Western world. We have been lucky enough to stave him off until now, but his power and reign of terror grows ever stronger. The East has already fallen victim to him, taken completely by him, the tragedy of – ” _

“Change the bloody station,” his uncle Teddy growled. “I’ve had enough of that American git.”

“He’s a terrible man,” Carol agreed from behind him as the channel changed back to  _ Thunderbirds _ . “You know, I feel sorry for his children. To be stuck with the Gaumort legacy, and to have  _ that _ as a father?” She shook her head. “A shame.”

“Nah, he’s probably indoctrinated ‘em all already.” Teddy took a sip of his whiskey. “Told ‘em the only way to rule the world is money and violence.”

George felt, in his memory, the smooth feeling of a clay sculpture under his fingertips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical accuracies and inaccuracies:
> 
> The Cambridge "freedom ride" protest was real. March 1962, Cambridge, MD. After the city fell on hard times and many factories closed down, unemployment for whites doubled the national average to 7% and for Blacks, skyrocketed to 29%. Two factories stayed open, but they had a “tacit agreement with the city:” if the workers DIDN'T unionize, the companies would only hire whites and not Blacks. Two organizations, CIG (Civil Interest Group) and CNAC (Cambridge Nonviolent Action Committee) organized two nonviolent protests in Cambridge, MD – mostly students from highschools and colleges – and both protests were interrupted by white hostiles that beat protestors. One leader of the protests, Bill Hansen, a Black man, was beaten and arrested for “Disorderly Conduct.” And that was just the FIRST protest. Read more [here.](https://www.crmvet.org/tim/timhis62.htm#1962cnac)
> 
> The final Thunderbirds episode aired December 25, 1966, not December 23, but it isn't deeply important
> 
> At the time, a lot of capitalist propaganda had this very gendered way of speaking about communism and its impact on Eastern countries - communism was this horrible man and Vietnam/Laos/Cambodia were these helpless women who cowered before the violent man of communism. (The metaphors only worsened from there.) I wanted to include that sort of language in the way that Henry Gaumort speaks about the war, and you'll probably see more of it later on as well.
> 
> Leave a kudos or a comment if you liked it! I really, really love hearing what you have to say and your opinions and predictions! My tumblr is @princedemeter if you want to talk to me there :) see you next thursday!


	7. BURNT NORTON - only the cause and end of movement (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The world spun, light dragged out, and minutes or hours passed. Time shifted like water. George drank and danced until he was loose-blooded and flimsy, corners of his eyes dipping, gravity tugging at his lips. Skin underneath his hands. Somewhere along the way, his jacket had disappeared. The bass thundered in his feet and his throat, overwhelming and loud, bodies pressing in on George from all sides, heat rising._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back to another episode of how poetic can we get about block men. this week, the answer is very.
> 
> big thank you to my betas this week, jules, light, and aenqa!!!! you all have the biggest brains in the land and im very lucky to have you on my side
> 
> if you want to listen along with george in the opening scene, [click here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mXN9dBeXhgU)
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS: lots of alcohol consumption, nausea due to alcohol consumption, and brief implications of sexual assault. however, no one is sexually assaulted in any form.
> 
> please enjoy! i'm very proud of this chapter. finally, some good fucking PLOT.

The crackle of the speakers was low beneath the ominous opening of Tchaikovsky’s “Pathetique” symphony. The low lamplight cast shadows across the living room and the candle George had lit sat on top of the fireplace, adding its own flickering light to the evening.

George himself sat in an armchair, listing against the side, staring out the tall windows at the quiet street outside as the music began to get faster, the violins picking up the theme and running with it. Soon, the winds and brass joined and the tempo was frantic, ecstatic, panicked. George’s heart raced.

The orchestra reached a peak and halted, breathless.

George let himself relax a little as the strings soared, and he looked up at the ceiling, leaning back in the chair. Slowly, his eyes closed and he lost himself to the rise and fall of the recording, the hopeful pleas and the strangled fury, the devastation of the brass chords.

It was begging, this symphony, for forgiveness.

“It’s all ballet music, Tchaikovsky.”

George gasped and sat up. “Mum,” he said, relaxing. “You scared me.”

Helen shook her head and set a steaming cup of tea on the coffee table, settling herself on the couch. “You’ve always been too nervous, George.”

“I grew up around Craig. Can you blame me?” George asked.

Helen tsked. “You’re so rude to him, you know. You could stand to be nicer.” She took a sip of her tea.

It was a losing battle. It always was. “Whatever,” George muttered, sullen, and stared at the slowly turning record.

“Who’s conducting?”

“Bernstein,” George said. “It was a Christmas gift from Kathleen.” Whether Kathleen had known the significance of this specific composer and this specific conductor, he didn’t know, but it had been startling all the same.

“Oh, the record she gave you this morning,” Helen said. “I didn’t realize. Very kind of her. What did you get her again?”

“All of my presents are still in the mail.” George stamped down his frustration and embarrassment. He’d already told his family this morning, already apologized for his inability to contribute meaningfully to an already depressing Christmas morning. Helen had been there. Apparently, she wasn’t listening.

“Oh, really?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Well, what’s on the way, then?”

“For Kathleen, a pair of shoes,” George said. “She mentioned a specific pair she wanted in her letters to me. I guess I got the hint.”

“Oh, she’ll be thrilled.” Helen set her teacup down. “And what for  _ me _ , George?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” 

“Don’t be such a curmudgeon. What did you get me?”

George stuck to his guns. “Mum, you won’t get it out of me.” It was an antique tea cup to add to her collection, one he had found in New York over the summer and kept safe in a trunk in his room, padded with multiple layers of scarves. 

Helen scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Well, if you insist.”

The record spun to a stop, the first movement completed. George stood and turned it to the B side, setting the needle carefully on the outer edge of the record.

He sat again, the music filling the air as he massaged the cold out of his fingers.

“I never understood this movement,” Helen said after a brief period. “I always supposed it was meant to be a waltz, but it simply isn’t.”

“I mean,” George began, choosing his words carefully. “Tchaikovsky knew how to write a waltz. He certainly wrote a number for his ballets.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty, the Nutcracker.”

He glanced up at Helen. She was studying him, her eyebrows creased. Feeling uneasy, he continued.

“But it’s not meant to be a waltz. At least not one that we easily recognize. Something’s just a little off-kilter, a little imbalanced. The music we hear is this warped, idealized version of the world he wants to live in, the world of the waltz. But he doesn’t. He never can.”

George’s words faded into the awkward lilt of the non-waltz.  _ One _ -two-three- _ four _ -five.  _ One _ -two-three- _ four _ -five. The cellos gave the violins the melody and the orchestra danced around it like a one-legged man.

Helen sighed. “I guess it just never resonated with me. It’s not the right dance, you know? I’ll just never understand.”

“I just explained it to you,” George tried, and she turned a frosty gaze on him.

“Oh, well thank you  _ dearly _ for explaining it to me, your dimwitted mother, since clearly I’m too stupid to ever grasp the finer nuances of music.” She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, George. That attitude is going to get you nowhere in life.”

Helen stood, her tea empty. “Continue listening, then. God forgive me for wanting to spend time with my son.”

“Mum!”

But she had already swept away, the candle flames dancing in the wake of her movement.

George leapt up, stopped the record, and made a decision.

_ “Never go out alone,” Eret said. “That’s rule number one.” _

_ “I don’t think I’ll be going out at all,” George responded, grimacing at the tank top he held at arm’s length in front of him. “You really want me to wear this? It’s a little queer.” _

_ “Where we’re going, you have to look a little queer.” Eret ruffled George’s hair. “That’s rule number two.” _

_ “Is there a rule number three?”  _

_ Eret hummed. “If he looks like a cop, he’s probably a cop.” _

Not twenty minutes later, George stepped outside in a white t-shirt, an old leather jacket that didn’t fit Craig anymore, and a pair of jeans. Eret’s clip-on earring swayed on his left ear. He closed the door as quietly as he could and hurried down the driveway, running a hand through his hair.

The wind whipped around his face. George shoved his hands in his pockets and turned his head away. He avoided the people on the street, crossing to the other side if he had to, and started to turn down the worse alleys, the rain-soaked cobble lined with mud. The scruffy vagrants warming their hands above fire pits spat at George as he walked. Part of him wanted to go home, to curl up and listen to the rest of the Tchaikovsky, in the warm living room with the candles. Hide underneath his covers. Pretend that none of this existed.

But he would just be lying to himself.

The girls were lining the streets of Earl’s Court, clicking heels echoing against the brick, sultry voices soft against the air. George passed through them and they let him, their hands at his back, their eyes meeting his and following each other until they broke apart. Quiet men joined them, brows arched and cheeks pink, eyes dark with mascara and sex. 

And then, the crowd that milled about outside the  _ Lord Ranelagh. _ It stood facing a three-way intersection, its windows dark and the noise from inside muffled. George looked up at the plain facade, stark pale against the gray-brown clouds of the night above smoggy Earl’s Court, ultra-aware of the crowd surrounding him, the drunk men, the loud laughter of too much truth in one place.

Someone pitched into him and he stumbled, grabbing the other man by the shoulders, his feet sliding under him on the slick pavement.

“Oh! Sorry, beautiful,” the man said, his Cockney accent thick, hands patting down George’s upper arms. “You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” George said, gaining back his footing. “Thank you.”

The man laughed and tossed dirty blond hair over his shoulder. “You’re welcome for crashing into you, I suppose.” Standing straight, he was a head taller than George. He nodded towards the  _ Lord Ranelagh. _ “I’m afraid you’ve missed the show.”

George glanced at him, head to toe, blink-and-you’d-miss-it quick, but the man’s mouth quirked upwards. “I’m not here for the show.”

“What are you here for then?”

“Christmas cheer, obviously.” George tilted his head and gave the man a slow smile. “Brighten my night.”

“Happy Christmas to the poofters!” the man hollered and a weak cheer went up from nearby. “Listen, I just came out to get some air, but some of the girls are still dancing. Or if the Catacombs are more your fancy…”

“Ugh,” George scowled. It wasn’t as though the gay bars served anything better than swill, but the Catacombs were notoriously stingy about their alcohol. “Can you even get drinks there?”

“How fat is your wallet?” the man snickered, placing a hand in the crook of George’s elbow and guiding him to the door. “Here the beer might be watered down to shite, but at least you don’t have to sell your bloody soul.”

The doorman was big and bulky, twice George’s size at least, eyeing him up and down. George looked up at the blond man next to him, letting his eyes go wide and hopeful, and the guy melted for him, his thumb stroking along the inside of George’s arm.

“He’s with me, Gene.”

The doorman stepped aside and the man pushed the door open, the music growing as it opened, deafening. “Welcome to the  _ Lord Ranelagh.” _

Inside the lights were dark and pulsing, casting muddy shadows across the room and across men’s faces. On the other side of the dance floor, a queen bathed in bright light stalked the stage, mouthing the lyrics to a song George didn’t recognize. Champagne curtains glittered behind her, dancing reflections along the floor.

“I didn’t catch your name,” George shouted over the din.

“Alan,” the man answered. “Yours?”

“George.”

“George,” Alan said, and held out a hand. “Dance with me?”

The world spun, light dragged out, and minutes or hours passed. Time shifted like water. George drank and danced until he was loose-blooded and flimsy, corners of his eyes dipping, gravity tugging at his lips. Skin underneath his hands, Alan’s skin. Somewhere along the way, his jacket had disappeared. The bass thundered in his feet and his throat, overwhelming and loud, bodies pressing in on George from all sides, heat rising. 

Singing, voices joining the chorus, fists pumping in the air. He didn’t know the lyrics and couldn’t make out the words. He joined in anyway, Alan raucous at his side, screaming yelling, hands all over George that weren’t his, and he leaned into it, smiled at a man who winked and disappeared into the crowd. Fleeting and languid. 

The drag queen on the stage was a bright figure in George’s vision, a dark-skinned girl wearing sparkles, shining and moving under the blinding spotlights, her arms spread wide, a terrible smile on her painted lips as she sang soundlessly into the crowd.

Dancing, touching, lips dragging across smooth skin. George didn’t want to kiss him. Alan’s hands vicelike on his waist,  _ their fingers entangled, loose and relaxed, sunkissed November, the sounds and smells of a lake – _

George shook his head, the motion faster than his brain could process, dizziness catching up to the liquid feeling in his head. No, no. Smoke around him, spilled beer, sticky floor, sweaty bodies. He staggered.

“Baby, you okay?”

Not the right accent. George felt himself pulled to the edge of the room, back hitting the rough wood of the wall. His head thunked back against it and he felt lips soft against his neck. He pushed them off.

“Now you’re gonna be all pissy with me?”

“Fuck off,” George muttered, struggling to stay upright. 

Alan moved like stop-motion in front of him, a hand against his chest, pushing him against the wall. “Fuck. Stand up straight, beautiful. Take deep breaths. We’ll rejoin once you get your footing.”

George shook his head. Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes and spilled down his cheeks.

“Fuck, bloody – fuck. Sorry you’re having a bad night, then,” Alan said, and disappeared back into the crowd.

Shit, shit, shit. George inhaled shakily through the tears suffocating him, his nose stuffy, his head spinning. He closed his eyes and it only made it worse. Sight no longer there to guide him, the darkness inside his head spun like a top, and he opened his eyes, focusing on the ceiling at the opposite corner, unmoving, stable. 

A calloused hand grabbed his shoulder. “Come on. Come on, sit down.”

“No,” George mumbled. “No, no.”

“Idiot. Come on, I have a booth.” Rough voice, slow, solid. George latched on to it as he was carefully manhandled into the lacquered wood of one of the very few booths in the club. He slumped into it and watched as the man who had gotten him there sat down across from him. 

George narrowed his eyes. A long, pale wig was braided over the man’s shoulder, dark cape draped carelessly over a ruffled white shirt. George leaned forward to ask what the fuck he was wearing and his head swirled. He grasped at the table, trying to stabilize himself.

“Take deep breaths,” the man said unhelpfully.

“You’re American,” George said.

“And you’re fuckin’ drunk.” The man slid a water glass across the table towards him. George eyed it warily. “Don’t worry ‘bout a thing. I’m as straight ‘n narrow as they get.”

“What... the fuck are you doing here then?” George asked, guzzling the water. “In all… in all  _ that.” _

“Drink slower,” the man said instead. “You’re gonna make yourself puke.”

George put the empty glass of water down. “Whatever. Got ditched, anyway.”

The man raised a thick eyebrow. “By the guy you came with?”

George shook his head. “Didn’t come with anybody.”

The guy straightened and raised an imperious finger. “That’s dumb. Rule number one, don’t – ”

“Don’t go out alone, yeah, I know, I’ve heard it... thousand times,” George groaned. 

The man frowned. He straightened in his chair and peered closely at George. “You have?”

“Duh,” George said. He thumped his chest ferociously. “Eret –  _ my friend Eret _ – tells me that.  _ Alllllll _ the fucking time.”

“You know Eret?”

“How. Do  _ you _ know Eret?”

“I’ve performed with her,” the man said. “A thousand times.”

He stuck out his hand. “Technoblade. Premier drag king of the northern hemisphere.”

Technoblade dragged George to a very nice apartment with a security guard who was very good at looking the other way, and pushed him into the elevator, George leaning heavily against the wall, his eyelids heavy with sleep. The world was fluctuating around him and he tried to steady himself. 

“How’dja even get the name  _ Technoblade?” _

“My friend Sam came up with it, actually,” Techno mused. “I did a lot of fencing in high school, and when I started my degree in computer science… well, he just put two and two together.”

“That why you’re an American in London?” George asked. 

Techno tilted his head. 

“Cambridge.” George waved his hand vaguely. “New com… contuper... computer science porgrim. My sister went there.”

Techno chuckled again. “Oh, no. No, I dropped out years ago and moved to Sam’s farm near the Finger Lakes. I live there when I’m not performin’. My sponsor brought me to London for the month.”

The elevator doors slid open and Techno began to step out, but George was still. “Wait.” He put a hand on the wall to steady himself. “New York? You perform... in New York?”

“Please walk out of the elevator, George, I know you’re capable of it.”

“New  _ York,”  _ George emphasized, stumbling forward. Techno groaned and grabbed his arm to hold him up. 

“Yes, I perform in New York,” Techno said. He dumped George against a wall and dug a pair of keys out of his pocket. “I am  _ the  _ premier drag king of the northern hemisphere. Of course I perform in New York.”

“Do you know Eret?” George felt himself tearing up.

Techno unlocked the door and stared at him. “We’ve been over this. How drunk  _ are  _ you?”

“Best friend,” George swallowed, failing to keep himself from crying. “She’s my best friend.” He grabbed at Techno’s arm, eyes wide and desperate. “ _ You _ know she’s a  _ queen _ . I can  _ trust _ you.”

“Yes,” Techno said. He looked constipated as George hiccupped, drunkenly wiping tears off his face. He patted George’s shoulder. “Please come inside.”

George shook his head. “I can’t accept this.”

“Oh, for the love of – I am going to stick you onto my couch, make you drink water, and then you’re going to  _ sleep,  _ George, best friend of Eret.”

George slowly ambled into the apartment, admiring the cleanliness of it all. “I’m supposed to see her perform in March.” He pointed at the enormous couch. “That’s bigger than my bed.”

He whirled and almost fell over. Techno looked unimpressed. “How do you have so much  _ money?” _

Techno shrugged. “Pays well to be a drag king.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Ouch.” Techno said mildly. He leaned forward and pushed George onto the couch. “Go to sleep.”

As George sunk into the pillows that lined the couch, he felt his eyelids begin to droop. “I’m not tired.”

“You’re a pain in the ass.  _ I’m _ going to sleep. I guess you can do what you want.”

George curled up as he left, hugging his knees to his chest. His head dipped slowly until finally, a dreamless sleep overtook him.

In the morning, Technoblade was gone, not even a note on the coffee table, though there was a glass of cold water. George drank it slowly, letting himself gradually return to the land of the living.

He didn’t have money for the Tube so he walked home, his t-shirt thin against the wind, fingers going numb from the cold. His head ached with his hangover and the world was wobbly under his feet. 

He stuffed Eret’s earring in his pocket. Daylight was not the time for such things.

The house was quiet as he unlocked the front door and tiptoed down to his room in the basement. No one was in the kitchen, in the living room, in the bedroom down the hall from George’s. Not for the first time, he was grateful for his family’s tendency to sleep in.

He collapsed onto the lower bunk, the bedsprings creaking, and put his head in his hands. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Last night was a dangerous game. What would he have done if Techno hadn’t been there? Vomited all over himself and gotten kicked out? Would he have gone home with someone else, someone who –

He stopped his train of thought. He was stupid, he’d made a stupid decision out of petty childish anger, and it had ended better than it could have. End of story.

(Not the end of story. Eret was going to hear about this, because he was omniscient, and then he was going to kill George.)

He sighed, and leaned back against the headboard. Five more days, five more days, and then he could go home. Five more days, and then he could get out of here.

They passed dreadfully slowly, those five days. George’s father was still working on deciphering the will and his siblings were nagging at him for a piece of the pie. It made him grumpy and angry at family dinners, which in turn made everyone else grumpy and angry, and not even Aunt Carol’s cooking could cheer them up. 

George finished listening to his new Tchaikovsky recording, Helen making snarky comments about how the third movement should have been the fourth movement and vice versa. “It’s just so much more bombastic. The fourth movement is so slow and sad. It’s a let-down.”

“It’s  _ tragic, _ ” George said. “It’s supposed to be sad.”

“You’re an academic,” Kathleen scoffed. “You like tragedy. Like in the Greek plays.”

“It makes for a better story,” George muttered under his breath.

Craig brought his buddies to the house for a family dinner, a bunch of rugby-looking men with big, broad shoulders and square jaws and annoying accents. They got drunk off several bottles of wine and laughed loud and ugly. One of them made a crude comment to Kathleen, and she silently picked up her wine glass and threw its contents in his face. George snickered, Craig looked horrified, and Helen chastised her – something about treating guests with respect.

“He didn’t treat  _ me _ with respect.” Kathleen folded her arms and turned her blunt gaze on her mother. “Why should I respect him?”

“Because – because you should,” the offending rugby player interjected.

“You shut your mouth,” Kathleen shot at him, and he shut it.

Needless to say, Craig did not bring them back for any more dinners. 

The morning of December 31st dawned like most days in London, rainy and gray. George was almost entirely ready to go at that point, having been so excited to leave he’d actually started packing early. The Tchaikovsky recording was nestled between his clothes, kept safe and flat, and Eret’s earring was tossed amongst George’s toiletries. They were the only two things that really mattered.

Kathleen was waiting for him in the kitchen, leaning against the refrigerator and waiting for the kettle to boil. “I guess I’m driving you back,” she said with a yawn. “Nobody else wanted to get up for you.”

“Shut up.” George pulled a can of peaches from the cabinet. “You’re so mean to me.”

“You deserve it,” Kathleen said as the kettle started to squeal. “Tea?”

“Yes, please,” George said. “Chamomile.”

“We don’t have chamomile.” Kathleen poured him a cup.

“The fuck do you mean, we don’t have chamomile?”

“Earl Grey or bust, George.”

“I hate this family,” George groaned, eating the peaches straight out of the can. “Fine, Earl Grey, then.”

Kathleen caught sight of him with his fork and the peach juice dribbling down his chin as he hastily wiped it away. She shook her head. “You’re bloody disgusting.”

“Shut the fuck up,” George said through a mouthful of peaches.

The drive to Heathrow was quiet, few cars out on the morning of New Year’s Eve. George dozed lightly in the passenger’s seat, Kathleen’s smooth driving and the rumble of the car lulling him back to sleep.

“Hey.” A hand hit his shoulder. “Wake up, fucko. We’re almost here.”

George stretched and glanced around, Heathrow’s massive first terminal coming into view. “It’s the second terminal.”

Kathleen rolled her eyes. “I’m well aware.”

Soon, they pulled up to the curb, sleepy passengers running in and out of the revolving doors, suitcase wheels catching on the sidewalk.

“Alright. Get out of here while you still can,” Kathleen said, turning to face George. “Or else you’ll end up like me.”

“We can’t have that,” George snickered, opening up the door as Kathleen popped the trunk open. He pulled his suitcase out and walked over to the driver’s side as Kathleen got out.

“Give me a hug.” She pulled George in, encasing him in her wiry arms. “Have a good semester, alright, Gogy?”

“And you stay safe,” George said, rubbing her back. “Happy New Year, Kathy.”

She released him. “Happy New Year’s. I might miss you.”

George rolled his eyes and felt the pressure behind his eyes that warned of tears. “I’ll miss you too.”

The sky above the Atlantic was turbulent and stormy. Plates rattled and drinks spilled, stewardesses stumbling as they moved through the plane. George’s own grip on the seat rests was vicelike, sitting with his back pressed against the cushion, trying to keep his breathing steady.

The storm lasted for hours, the air on the plane tense and frightened as the pilots fought for control. They made several announcements over the intercom, asking passengers to stay seated and letting them know that it would take them extra time to reach New York. Their voices were eerily calm and professional.

After so, so long, the rocking ceased. The plane straightened and the flight got smoother. George slowly released his grip on the seat rests. Breathing became easier.

He didn’t fully relax until they touched down at LaGuardia, the earth finally solid beneath the plane. The captain spoke over the intercom.

“The year is 1967, the day, January first. The time is 12:10. Happy New Years,” his solemn voice said. “I sincerely apologize for those of you who were looking forward to spending time with family and friends. Please have a wonderful year and thank you for flying with us.”

Around George, people were rushing off the plane, desperate to start their year right, surrounded by people they loved. Their families were probably waiting at the gate, watching the announcement board for the plane’s arrival, twisting their hands together and shifting their feet in anxiety.

George slowly moved off the plane, nodding at the pilots and stewardesses as he exited, the world almost unreal under his feet. Dream had agreed that he would wait in the parking lot, but he had probably been there for an hour already. A part of George was expecting him to leave. 

He had been right about the families. Groups of people were gathered together, holding each other just outside the jetway, scanning each face that left, excited and hopeful. He headed to the left, swerved around the groups of people and made it into the hallway outside of the gate. All of the stores were closed, machines dark, lights above him fluorescent and glaring. He just wanted to get out of there as soon as he could.

“George!”

He turned, heart in his throat.

“George!” 

It was Dream, his eyes wide, rushing towards him, pushing through an irritated family. He skidded to a halt in front of George, his hands reaching out and hovering over George’s shoulders before he dropped them to his sides, his fingers jittery against his legs, glancing over at the people still waiting at the gate.

“You – the plane was so late! I thought you said 11 but it was near 11:30 so I went inside to check and they told me. They told me about a huge storm, but not to worry – but storms and planes, George, they don’t mix well, and they told me I could wait at the gate for you, because a lot of other people were already there.” He took a deep breath. “Shit. Um, Happy New Years.”

“Happy 1967,” George mumbled. 

He was nothing at all like the Dream from the news, the Dream that had stood stiffly in his father’s shadow. This Dream had long hair, shining under the bright lights. This Dream was real, his cologne soft in the air. This Dream he could reach out and touch.

But all George could see was Dream Gaumort.

And Dream was looking at George, really looking. Nobody had looked at George like that for weeks. He shriveled underneath it.

He kicked the ground. “Can we just get out of here? I wanna go home.”

“Yeah,” Dream agreed, a smile in his voice and in his eyes. George glanced up at him and had to look away. “Let’s go home.”

They ended up sitting in the car and watching the fireworks over the water. George sat curled up in the passenger side, feeling awkward about the car’s set-up after his time in Great Britain.

“How was your Christmas?” Dream eventually asked, his voice hopeful.

George shrugged. “My grandmother died, a few days before. We had a funeral.”

Dream looked over at him, eyes soft. “I’m sorry, George.”

“It’s fine.” George looked away. “She was pretty gone, by the end. It was probably for the best.”

Dream reached out and rubbed his shoulder.

“How was yours?” George asked. 

Dream’s eyes smiled a little. “It was fine. It was nice to see my family again. I missed my siblings.” He grinned. “My sister and I are actually pretty close.”

“Funny you would never mention her to me then.”

Dream frowned. “Haven’t I?”

“No.”

He looked over at George. “Oh. I guess I haven’t. She’s pretty cool. For a ten-year-old.”

George tucked his chin between his knees and watched the fireworks. They stayed silent, Dream’s fingers nervous against the steering wheel.

“I saw you had a very public dinner with McNamara,” George said finally. “How was that?”

Dream tensed. “I mean, we were only there for show. My siblings and I and our mom. My father did most of the talking.”

“What did he talk about?” George asked.

Dream’s knuckles were white. He pressed his lips together. “Classified.”

“Oooooooh,” George said. “ _ Classified, _ was it?”

Dream sighed. “George.”

“No, no, really.  _ Classified? _ Do you know now what kinds of weaponry they’re going to be using to kill innocent civilians? To kill each other?”

“Stop.”

“Or is it going to be a test?” George pushed. “They’re going to send something over and they don’t know if it works yet.” He laughed. “A field test.”

Dream’s jaw tensed. “Stop.”

“I don’t think I will.” He unfolded himself, sitting straight. His stomach was rolling, pent-up rage and sorrow and frustration all tumbling out of him. “You  _ know _ it’s wrong, don’t you? You heard what they were saying and you  _ hated  _ it. You know what’s going to happen next and you can’t get it out of your head, as much as you want to.” 

“Shut up, George.”

He couldn’t stop himself. Tears pricked his eyes and he whirled on Dream. “Come on, get it out. Tell me what you want to say. Did they talk about strategies? New, advanced weaponry meant to make a man bleed as much as possible? Or were they talking about what had already happened? How many men they’ve already gotten killed? How many women? How many  _ children?” _

“I said, shut  _ up.” _

“Fucking make me,” George snarled. “Shut me up like you’ve always wanted – ”

Dream’s lips were crushing on his, his hands bruisingly tight on George’s face. He slammed him up against the passenger’s side door, his head hitting the glass and his back contorted over the handle. George’s hands came up to thread themselves through Dream’s hair, fingers curling and pulling at it. Dream grunted at the sudden pain and bit George’s lip.

“Ow,” George snapped.

Dream pulled away abruptly. His lips were parted and swollen and he was panting, short gasping breaths. His hair was messed up, a little tangled and a little fluffy, and the first thought that came to George was,  _ I did that. _

Dream glanced around the deserted parking lot. There was a car parked far away at the other end, but otherwise there was no one there.

“Worried someone’s gonna see you kissing another man?” George taunted. “We can’t have that, now can we?”

“I’m not worried about me,” Dream sighed. 

“Oh, you’re worried about  _ me? _ Pull the other one.” 

“George, I’m sorry that you don’t like my dad. I’m sorry you don’t like my  _ family.  _ But I can’t control my family any more than you can control yours.”

“Who said anything about me not liking your family?”

Dream exploded. “ _ You fucking did!” _

George stayed silent. Dream was taking deep breaths now, heavy inhales and exhales, his brow furrowed, chewing on his lip. His fingers tapped on his thigh.  _ 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4. _

He leaned his head against the headrest and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I hate it, okay? I hate the pressure. I hate the expectation.” He turned to look at George. “I met… I was… ”

His eyes were raw, tears glimmering at the corners. “I got engaged two days ago.”

Everything stopped.

“You’re in an arranged marriage.”

Dream nodded. “Not by choice, trust me.”

George raised an eyebrow. “Is she ugly?”

Dream shrugged. “The opposite, actually. She’s beautiful, she’s kind. She’s getting a law degree at Yale right now.” 

He dropped his head into his hands. 

When he spoke next, his voice was muffled. “Have you ever said it?”

“Once,” George murmured. “To Eret.” 

It hung in the air between them, ugly and bloody and raw, a secret so great and terrible it was ruinous. George’s throat stung like crying and his chest ached. Behind Dream’s back, he reached out, his fingers trembling. “Have you?”

“Yes,” Dream said. “To Sapnap.”

“ _ Sapnap,” _ George repeated, thunderstruck. “He… he’s not…”

Dream shook his head. “He isn’t. I was… fifteen.” He sighed. “I’d never felt – I thought he was the greatest, just the most wonderful person I’d ever met. He was beautiful and funny and smart. He told – he told me that I was the person who knew him best.”

“You were sweet on him,” George whispered.

Dream laughed humorlessly. “I guess you could say that.” He paused, the silence stretching. “I was stupid. I thought he felt the same. I kissed him. I fucking kissed him.”

George didn’t speak.

“He left the room,” Dream said. “He didn’t move and he pushed me away and left. It was the first time we’d ever met in person, not in a letter, not in a phone call, and I fucked it up because I’m – because I’m a fucking  _ queer _ .” His voice cracked.

George let his hand fall onto Dream’s back, barely a touch, barely a caress. 

“He came back into the room, and he said to me, and I’m never gonna forget it,  _ man, that’s weird shit, I love you but don’t do that again. _ And he let it go.” Dream shrugged into George’s touch, pushing into his hand. “He – he covered for me, sometimes. When I did something dumb. He covered for me.”

“A protector,” George said, thinking about the sculpture. 

Dream nodded. “He never realized. He likes bears – he’s always said they’re his favorite animal. I never told him that’s what it meant, so when you said it, I panicked. I didn’t think it was that obvious.”

“It’s my incredible skills in literary analysis,” George tried, going for a joke, an old joke, and Dream laughed, just a little, but enough. He sat up, his eyes wet and red and dark with hope.

“George,” he said. And then, so quietly, “Hephaestion.”

George took his hand. “Alexander.”

Dream’s mouth formed words. His eyes flickered a little to the right, and then back. Slowly, hesitantly, he said: “ _ Sudden in a shaft of sunlight, / Even while the dust moves, / There rises the hidden laughter, / Of children in the foliage.” _

George twined their fingers together. Something ached within him. Dream’s face was lit with the brightness from the fireworks outside. _ “Quick now, here, now, always – ”  _ he said.  _ “Ridiculous the waste sad time / Stretching before and after.” _

Dream smiled, and leaned forward, and kissed him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few historical things:
> 
> Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky was a famously gay composer. In his journals, he referred to his homosexuality as “Z” and often lamented about how it tortured him, how he stayed up at night and couldn’t sleep because of it. The Pathetique is OBJECTIVELY an expression of homosexual desire and tragedy, and I’ll tell you why. Feel free to skip the next two paragraphs if you don’t care.
> 
> Tchaikovsky dedicated the symphony to his nephew Bob Davydov, for whom he had romantic/sexual feelings. (Disgusting, I know. Bob was in his mid-twenties at the time of writing and Tchaikovsky in his fifties. Bob was gay, and certainly held a great deal of love and respect for Tchaikovsky but whether this feeling was reciprocated is unclear. See [here](http://en.tchaikovsky-research.net/pages/Vladimir_Davydov) for more.) Most symphonies are not programmatic; they do not tell a specific story, unlike an opera or a ballet. They are in their most basic form, music for music’s sake. (Shout out to Oscar Wilde.) However, the second movement - the waltz in a pattern of 5 beats per measure, when most waltzes are in 3 beats per measure ([a famous example](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ZoSYsNADtY)) - is CLEARLY a variation on the waltz format. George explains it in the beginning of the chapter, but Tchaikovsky fucks with the sense of a waltz until it’s recognizably a waltz, but will never be a true waltz. I liken that to a metaphor on heterosexuality; the waltz in 3 is the “norm;” the heterosexual lifestyle that Tchaikovsky WISHES he could have (he tried, and failed), and the waltz in 5 is “Z,” the thing that tortured him for his entire life. 
> 
> The final movement is something Helen brings up as well. Many symphonies (Beethoven was a master at this format) have a big ending, something that will bring the house down, a huge finale that gets the audience riled up and excited. ([Beethoven 7, movement 4.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o-MixxJBJ7E)) The Pathetique is exactly the opposite. Tchaikovsky knows he can’t have what he wants, that the world is never going to accept that about him, and so his last symphony ends in tragedy. He died 9 days after he conducted its premier. I think he said all he had to say to the world, and he could finally leave. The real tragedy is that Russia, his country he loved so dearly, STILL denies his homosexuality to this day, despite the conclusive evidence to the contrary. 
> 
> Also, conductor and composer Leonard Bernstein – even at the time – was famously queer. I hesitate to ascribe him a label because I believe he did love his wife on some level, but he very flagrantly cheated on her with numerous men over the course of their marriage. He’s taken on something of a legendary status in the classical music community for his interpretations, analyses, and of course, West Side Story, but he wasn’t a very good person at all. (None of them were, actually. The perils of being white men.)
> 
> Earl’s Court actually used to be home to a number of gay clubs in the 60s and especially the 70s in London! The Catacombs never used to sell alcohol which is why George doesn’t want to go there, (POG name tho) but the Lord Ranelagh hosted a “Queen of the Month” contest. I certainly WISH I could find any sort of listing of the queens and who they were, literally any written history! Unfortunately, Queen of the Month was shut down by the police in May 1965 after a major news outlet published a story about it. The Lord Ranelagh continued for years as a gay nightclub until it closed. 
> 
> Drag kings don’t unfortunately have the legacy of drag queens (can I blame RuPaul for this? I can, I won’t, it’s not true, but she is a fracker) but Stormé DeLarverie, a drag king and butch lesbian who performed and worked in NYC in the 60s, did get into a fight with a cop at Stonewall and by many accounts, was the apocryphal “first brick.” 
> 
> Cambridge WAS actually the first college to have a computer science major!
> 
> And I didn’t know it when I was originally writing the scene, but the M16 rifle was actually replaced in 1967 by the M16A1 for increased accuracy, so let’s pretend like that’s what they’re talking about there.
> 
> finally, on a personal note: your comments on the last chapter absolutely gave me LIFE. so much fucking serotonin in my little dumb brain, thank you so much. i love love love hearing what you have to say and if you leave the same kinds of comments this chapter i may cry. my tumblr is @princedemeter. all my love <3


	8. BURNT NORTON - through time time is conquered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George leaned back and pressed his forehead to Dream’s. They breathed together. Limited time.
> 
> “We’re always here. No matter what.” His hand, fumbling under the blanket, found Dream’s and took it. “ _All time is eternally present._ Somewhere, we’re always here.”
> 
> “George,” Dream said, and tugged him close and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! thank you all so, so much for your kindness and patience. you were all so sweet in the comments and i know i didn’t get around to answering most of them but i’ve been kinda going through it recently. i’m actually going to my first therapy appointment TODAY! so i’m going to get better :)
> 
> also a common question i saw in the comments that i wanted to respond to: “PLEASE DON’T KILL ANYONE / PLEASE GIVE US A HAPPY ENDING!” **this fic has a happy ending.** i said it before and i’ll say it again. this fic has a happy ending. this fic has a happy ending because WE deserve it. so many stories written in this time period end in AIDS and tragedy and I'm Closeted And Sad because Gay People Can’t Be Happy - shut the fuck up. george doesn't get AIDS. dream doesn't end up lonely in a loveless hetero marriage. THEY GET THEIR HAPPILY EVER AFTER. sorry for spoiling it for you but i’m sick of watching myself die over and over again because authors are fucking cowards. work it out, asshole cishet authors.
> 
> A historical inaccuracy I realized after I posted the last chapter - Dream’s fiance in the arranged marriage, [redacted], couldn’t have been at Yale in 66 or 67 - Yale only began accepting female students in 69. Oops. Ignore that. 
> 
> anyway, i hope this extra long chapter makes up for the complete lack of one last week! after i post the next chapter, which will be the last chapter of burnt norton, i’ll be taking a week to try and get some extra work in and then we will start on part two, east coker. 
> 
> as always, a massive thank you to my betas, light, jules, aenqa, and introducing cleopatraslibrary! you guys make this fic what it is. THANK YOU.
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: homophobia, detailed descriptions of body numbness.
> 
> i hope you guys enjoy this and thank you so much for your support!

Darkness, but liquid, and warm to the touch. The kind of dark that clung to the still of the night as the sun rose, living only in the sheltered space behind the closed curtains. The sunshine sliced through the gap between them, rippled across the heavy covers. Soft breathing, slow murmurs of sleeptalking and grasping hands, curled into each other, two boys seeking comfort.

George pulled the warmth closer to him, his sleepy brain reaching for the nearest source.

It was yanked from over him.

“Hey,” he grumbled, “fuck.”

“Cold.”

“’m cold too.”

A sudden burst of movement and Dream flailed upwards, his eyes wide in shock, staring at George in the bed next to him. The covers were bunched in his hands.

George snatched at them and tucked them around him. “ _ Give.” _

“ _ George,” _ Dream breathed.

George shut his eyes and shuffled closer to Dream, the bare skin of his stomach and hip radiating heat. “Sleep.”

“You’re here.” Dream’s voice, muffled by the covers over George’s face. 

“Yup.”

“You stayed.”

“Mm-hmm.”

A hand, hesitant and light, laid on top of his hair. George leaned into it and Dream sifted his fingers through the strands, gentle against his scalp. He fell asleep again, Dream’s hand carding softly through his hair, his chest rising and falling underneath his cheek. 

When he woke again, Dream was speaking, his voice quiet and stuttering. 

“ _ your slightest look easily will unclose me / though i have closed myself as fingers / –  _ as fingers, like ….  _ like _ fingers?  _ easily will unclose… as fingers…  _ with fingers, maybe? a hand? You’d know, George –  _ / you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens / (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose… ” _

George drifted.

“ _ nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals / the power of your intense fragility: – ” _ Dream’s fingers tightened in George’s hair –  _ “whose texture / compels me with the colour of its countries / rendering death and forever with each breathing /  _ God, maybe I shouldn’t have chosen this one.” The sound of flipping pages. “I – whatever, yeah, I’ll finish it.” 

George shifted too suddenly and the edge of a book brushed his forehead. “Hey, are you awake?”

“Maybe.” George opened his eyes and the words on the pages blurred in front of him. “Is that E. E. Cummings?”

“Maybe,” Dream answered, coy, and George lightly bit his wrist. “Ow.” 

“That didn’t hurt.”

“It hurt me inside.”

“Sure.” George pushed himself upwards and took ahold of the book, glancing at the front cover. Dream’s hand trailed down his back. “I was right.”

“I got it as a gift to myself. For Christmas.”

“You could have gotten anything and you chose love poems?” George raised an eyebrow and to his immense surprise, Dream melted.

“I wanted to… to memorize one of them for you,” he mumbled. “Because you like poetry. But I don’t get it and I can’t remember it if I don’t  _ understand.” _

“That’s sweet,” George barely managed to say. “I… thank you.” He nestled his head on Dream’s shoulder and peered at the poem he was reading. “This feels oddly familiar.”

“It does.” Dream’s lips brushed George’s temple. “Hephaestion.” 

George’s heart leapt into his throat and beat wildly. Around it, he said, “Alexander,” and cleared his throat.

Dream’s hand returned to his hair and George scanned the poem. “What aren’t you getting?”

Dream shrugged under his chin. “Some of the metaphors. The last line seems out of nowhere.  _ nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands.” _

George smiled and pointed to the beginning. Dream bent to press a kiss to his hair. “It’s not. Look, hands have been a recurring image in the poem starting  _ here _ –”

He did not ask.  _ How will we survive this? How will we emerge in the end, hearts and souls and bodies intact? Where, once we are deformed and the sharp edges broken off of us, can we be whole again?  _

He did not ask, because they knew what the answers were. 

Dream undercooked the rice. He put his toothpaste on before he wet his toothbrush. He slept sprawled out like an enormous starfish and stole the covers. He got up early and read, his hands twitching and mouth forming the words in front of him. He didn’t fold his pants but hung his shirts up with care. He liked the room dark, liked the shades down, the lights low. Said it made him feel safer. 

They closed the kitchen shutters and put the radio on and cooked. They touched whenever they liked and kissed in the center of the room, standing in the doorway, in the middle of the hallway, up against the fridge as a pan sizzled on the stove, until the kettle began to scream. George plucked Dream’s glasses off his face and Dream lunged for them, tickled him until he couldn’t breathe. Kisses spread all over his face and neck and lovebites left underneath collarbones and stomachs and thighs. Where you couldn’t see them.

“We have twelve days,” Dream whispered to him that first day, George’s face cupped between his hands, thumbs stroking across his cheekbones. “Twelve days until we have to go back to Mulbrang. We can do whatever we want, George, go where we want. Where do you want to go? I’ll take you anywhere.”

Where did he want to go? He wanted to stand outside and hold Dream’s hand and kiss him on the cheek and lean on him when he got tired. It wasn’t about where they went. It was what they did when they got there.

“A museum,” he said, instead of anything else.

Dream cracked a smile at that, and his eyes were despairing. “What museum? Art? History? Tell me.”

George sighed and brought his hand up to brush Dream’s hair out of his face. “Wherever you want.”

On the fifth day, they went to the Met, and walked with space between them. Madonna and Child. Socrates. St. Sebastian, strung to a tree, muscles taut and neck angled crookedly upwards, gaze pleading, throat pierced through with an arrow. His hair was long, the angel above him a halo of gold. George stepped away and watched Dream stand with his hands behind his back and crane his neck to see the face of a martyr.

He walked away. 

Dream joined George in the next room. “He didn’t die, you know.”

“What?”

“St. Sebastian,” Dream said. “The arrows, they didn’t kill him. He was found there by some lady and she healed him.”

“I know.” George stared, unseeing, at a painting of a pasture. “Grace in suffering. I know.” He sighed and moved away. “Maybe they should have canonized her instead.”

On the train ride back, George found himself falling asleep, his head lolling unsteadily, and he angled his body away from Dream. Hours later, a sharp motion awoke him as Dream shoved his head violently off his shoulder. He was staring out the window, the darkness of the country they passed through vast and consuming.

Back inside Sapnap’s house, the door locked, he gathered George up, wordless, and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, lips pressed against his forehead.

On the eighth day, they drove to Saratoga and walked through the national park, cold and sprawling, the ground crunchy with frost. Dream was vibrant amongst the gray, the cloudy skies and dead foliage a dull backdrop to his brightness, his gold, his smile. He pushed George against a tree and sank to his knees.

“Tell me if you see anyone coming.”

“Dream! Dream, not –  _ Dream – ” _

And the cold air against his flushed cheeks after he was done, fire still collecting in the pit of his stomach and the tips of his toes. Dream’s bitter-tasting kiss lingering in his mouth, and the gray sky was forever a little warmer.

The tenth day was angry with snow and ice, and the tea in the morning took an extra minute to boil. George, sleepy, kitchen tile cold on his bare feet and complaining. Dream holding George’s hands in his own warm ones, and then gathering blankets as George poured the tea, the steam curling and rising in the frigid air. The radiator behind the couch turned on full blast. They tucked their feet under each other and the heat swarmed between them, under the blanket and their noses thawed from the tea.

George leaned back and pressed his forehead to Dream’s. They breathed together. Limited time.  _ How will we survive this? _

“We’re always here. No matter what.” His hand, fumbling under the blanket, found Dream’s and took it. “ _ All time is eternally present. _ Somewhere, we’re always here.”

“George,” Dream said, and tugged him close and kissed him.

Lazy, slow. Their lips moved against each other, the faint taste of the jasmine tea on their teeth and tongues. Dream’s hand at the small of George’s back, his fingers dipping underneath his waistband. George shivered and pressed in closer. Dream laughed into the kiss and George felt himself smile, splaying his hand across his cheek and threading his fingers through his hair.

And then the front door at the other end of the living room clicked, and unlocked, and opened. And there wasn’t enough time to spring apart, to make it look like they had been doing anything but what they had been doing. 

“Oh,” Sapnap said.

George sat in  _ Prehistoric Civilizations _ as slowly, students filtered in, shaking snow off their coats and out of their hair. The radiator next to him was working overtime, rattling with exertion, and George was basking in its heat.

Well, as much as he could.  _ PC _ was a class that he and Sapnap realized was necessary for both their majors last semester, and so they had decided to take it together. 

Now, he sat uncertainly at his desk, fiddling with his pen, watching the door.

Five minutes until class started, and still no Sapnap. Four minutes. Three.

George opened the thick textbook, the strange, bitter smell that textbooks carry wafting up to his nose. He flipped through. Two minutes. Sixty seconds. He checked his watch.

The professor marched in, slammed the door, and introduced himself. No Sapnap.

Hours later, back in their dorm room, George sat at his desk, outlining the new chapter and trying not to think too hard about how he hadn’t seen Sapnap since that morning, when George had left to take a shower. By the time he came back, Sapnap was gone.

The familiar creak of the door behind him and he glanced up. Sapnap dumped his bag on the floor and flopped into his bed, sighing and turning away from George. A clear signal. George ignored it.

“You weren’t in class today,” he said, staring at the textbook. 

“Nope.”

“Where were you?”

“I switched out.”

Oh. 

“Oh. What to?”

“Spot opened up in a field archaeology class. I took it.”

George doodled a little square in the corner of his outline and filled it in. “That’s cool.”

Sapnap didn’t answer.

It was like this for every following day, every single night. Sapnap silent with rage, barely looking at him, George hesitant, reaching out, hoping to find a hand-hold. 

Instead of spending his nights in his dorm room, George had joined Dream, Fundy, and Ponk in a study group. Fundy had discovered a tiny table in a nook near a window, a little farther off from the center of the library, and he claimed it for himself. 

Saturday evening after the first week of classes saw them there. A little desk light sat in the center of the table and four chairs around it, papers and books scattered all over the table. It was snowing lightly outside, a light powder building up on the windowsill next to them. Dream bundled up with a thick scarf wrapped around his neck and his hands covered by fingerless gloves. 

George tuned in to the conversation, his essay frustratingly slow. Ponk was talking about how he was taking another class taught by Dr. Sharp. “It’s not by choice,” he assured them. “It was supposed to be another professor but apparently he took ill. And now fucking Sharp is teaching.”

George had only barely passed his current events class, his dreadful final kicking his grade down to a C-minus. He leaned back in his chair and scuffed his foot against the floor, patting Ponk’s shoulder. “I feel sorry for you. Really, I do. Sharp’s a menace.”

“You did give him a run for his money, though.” Ponk elbowed George, grinning at Dream and Fundy. “Should have seen this guy in class. Sharp was  _ speechless.” _

Someone a row of books away from them made a shushing sound and Ponk lowered his voice. “That final kicked my ass though. I never want to think about it ever again.”

George set his mouth into a smile and forced a laugh. “It was something.”

Dream’s eyes flickered over him, his lips twitching. “I remember that. You should have seen it. George was killing us studying, he kept me and Sapnap up for – ”

He cut off and stared down at the table. “For, uh, for hours.” 

Underneath the table, Dream pressed his foot to George’s, seeking comfort. George started and pulled away, tucking his feet under his chair.

“I just wanted to get a good grade,” he said. “Sharp had it  _ out  _ for me.”

It was embarrassing, even thinking about admitting to the grade he’d gotten on the final. He buried himself in his homework.

They worked until Fundy left, stretching and yawning and leaving one of his textbooks on the table. Dream rolled his eyes.

“He does this all the time. Just expects that I’ll bring it back to our dorm because I’m a good roommate.”

“But you do,” Ponk said.

Dream dropped the textbook into his bag with a heavy  _ thunk. _ “Can’t have people knowing I’m actually a decent person.”

Ponk bid them goodbye after finishing Sharp’s assignment. “I’ll do the worksheets tomorrow. I need my beauty sleep, after all.” He wrapped himself in three winter coats and threw his bag over his shoulder. “See you around!”

George waved. He turned back to the table to see Dream’s eyes on him. After a moment, he looked away.

“How’s Sapnap?” Dream asked.

“Won’t really talk to me.” George’s pen paused. He shrugged. “I’m not sure what to say to him.”

Dream slumped in his chair and stared at the table, his eyes far away. Finally, he whispered, “I miss him.”

George nodded. “Me too.”

Dream shook his head. “But you get to see him. You get to live with him. I haven’t seen him since…”

George blinked and he was back in the living room in Albany, Sapnap, wind-brushed and pink cheeks and shock. His furious words, the disgust on his face.  _ You guys just couldn’t WAIT ‘til I was gone, could you? You wanted me out of the way so you could – so you could – _

“I didn’t think he’d react like that.”

George snapped back to the present. “Well, he’s… normal.”

“I thought you said not to call people that. Or imply that… we’re not.”

“Eret said to,” George said. “He always knows what words you’re supposed to use. But I don’t know how else to say it.”

Dream shook his head. “I don’t either.” He glanced around the library. “Do you think he’ll come around?”

“You’ve known him longer than I have.”

Dream’s voice thickened. “I’ve never had to deal with something like this.”

George looked up at him. “Something like this?”

“Well, you know.” He bit his lips and his eyes flicked down to the table before he looked back up at George. “I dunno. Something. I’ve always – always – it’s never been – like it’s always, for me, been, like, fleeting, and I know you’ve had – longer – friend-friendships, or, whatever you want to call it – ”

“I haven’t.”

“What?”

“Haven’t had longer relationships. Before.”

They were speaking in stage whispers. Dream’s eyes glimmered bright behind his glasses. “Are we…”

“Aren’t we?”

Dream’s foot pressed into his underneath the table, and this time, George didn’t pull away. 

“But it means that Sapnap’s only seen… glimpses, I guess,” Dream said. His fingers, on the desk.  _ 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4.  _ “If he could guess where I’d been.” 

“It affects  _ him, _ this time.” George wanted to touch him, kiss his knuckles where they stuck out underneath his gloves. He busied his hands with collecting papers.

_ How long has this shit been going on? _ George flinched. Dream’s response, at the time, had been,  _ It’s January 10th, so ten days, _ his eyes hard and flinty, standing in front of the couch, George silent off to the side. 

_ Great. So you’ve only fucked in MY house. Awesome. _

“We were washing the sheets,” Dream muttered, sullen, and George choked on a laugh. “He didn’t have to go _ that _ far.”

“I don’t think he was thinking straight,” George said. “I don’t think you were either.”

“I think you almost got through to him.”

“I didn’t.”

“You made him pause.”

“And then he left.”

_ Sapnap. You’ve known Dream was queer. You’ve known it for years.  _ George had stepped forward, his knees trembling.  _ If you have a problem with it now, you’ve had a problem with it the whole time. _

Sapnap stared at him, his jaw set, angry.

_ We’re your friends. You’re OUR friend.  _

Eret had estranged his family, all his friends, anyone he was close to, because he had refused to be anything but his true self. George had followed him, one foot in his world, one foot in Eret’s, and tried to balance the two. Now, it tilted.

_ Make up your mind. _

Sapnap had turned on his heel and left. Dream lasted two seconds before he was chasing him into the snow and sleet, calling his name, calling him a traitor, two-faced, face red with the cold and with rage, tears freezing on his cheeks.

“Dream, I’m sorry.”

Dream shook his head. “What were you supposed to do? Either of us? You gave him a choice.”

“He’s still rooming with me,” George said. “That’s something.”

“And he kept you a secret.” 

Dream’s hand fell onto George’s, gently, his fingers warm against George’s skin, before he pulled it away. “Maybe he just needs time.”

And time they gave him. February dawned colder than January, temperatures dipping below zero, Mulbrang’s campus freezing over. The tree branches were coated with ice, glittering dimly underneath the gray clouds, icicles the size of an arm dripping off of the roofs.

“At least it’s not Chicago,” George tried to joke one morning, seeing the sleet coming down out the window. A newspaper with pictures of the Windy City buried in snow sat on Sapnap’s desk.

“Ha,” Sapnap said, and left.

George sighed and pushed himself out of bed. He collapsed when he hit the ground, his legs crumpling under him.

He sat there in complete shock for a minute before he pulled his body up using his bedpost, his legs filling with the pins and needles of blood rushing back. Maybe he’d slept weird. 

He leaned on the bed, waiting for the feeling to subside. 

It didn’t.

He could barely walk, he realized, his legs shaking underneath the weight of his body like a baby deer. He trembled as he took a step forward, lifting his leg like it was a sack of bricks. One step forward, leaning on the bed for support. One step forward. One more step.

Awesome. Now he was almost to the end of his bed.

How was he supposed to walk down the stairs like this? How was he supposed to take a shower? He looked outside, the ice-covered ground. 

What the fuck was going on?

The door opened and Sapnap came back inside, barely sparing a glance for George, still in his pajamas, leaning on his bed. He dug around underneath his bed for a textbook. 

“Gonna be late for class if you’re moving that slow this morning,” he said.

“I think I slept funny,” George answered. Any conversation with Sapnap, especially one he initiated, was good conversation. “Feeling’s still coming back to my legs.”

“You sure that’s the reason?” Sapnap sneered. He straightened up and left again, slamming the door behind him.

For a second, George panicked. What if that  _ wasn’t  _ the reason? What if it could be –

Oh. Oh.

His heart sank and it took him a moment to realize how much that had hurt. 

One step forward. One step forward.

He got used to it, that day, the plodding, his legs feeling like cinder block toothpicks, his careful, careful steps across the icy cobblestone. He slipped four times and was late to all of his classes. But at least he was there. And at least he’d only slipped and fallen four times. It could have been five, he consoled himself. It could have been five.

Two days of this. George visited the student nurse on the second day, surrounded by people sniffling, coughing, bags under their eyes and skin gray. 

“My legs feel weird,” he said. “Like, as if you sat funny and then all your blood circulation was cut off.”

The nurse raised her eyebrows.

George stammered. “I – this morning, or well, yesterday morning. I could barely walk? I had to–” He flushed, his face hot. “I had to cling to my bed, and my desk. I slipped on the ice. I mean, it  _ was _ really icy yesterday. So that – that definitely could have been part of it.”

The nurse nodded, her face twisting in sympathy. “I could barely get my car  _ moving _ yesterday, the roads were so slippery. Almost skidded a couple times!” 

“Yeah, wow, it was. Really bad. And that sounds so scary. But like, today, I know I slept fine, and my legs still feel weird. And maybe it could be an aftereffect from yesterday, or maybe I sat – weird, in class. Or something. But it’s really, really hard for me to walk. Do you – maybe there’s some stretches I could do? I’m not very physically fit.”

“It could just be the cold,” the nurse said, stretching. “Are you cranking up the heat in your dorm room?”

George shrugged. “Me and my roommate are usually fine. I don’t – I don’t think it’s the cold–”

“Try cranking up the heat. I don’t know any stretches for you, but just get an exercise book. Or there’s always a gym on campus.” She looked pleased. “You could try that!”

George nodded and gave her a weak smile. “I’ll do that, then.”

He carefully hobbled out, gripping onto the door for dear life. One step forward. One step forward.

And the third day, he woke up feeling fine. He was walking normally, didn’t slip a single time on the ice, could feel his legs. But as he hurried down the stairs, he kept a firmer grip on the railing, kept his hands out beside him on the ice, for balance, stayed close to the walls, just in case.

Valentine’s day, a week later, was sunny but frigid, light glittering on the snow and ice on the trees and pathways and rooftops. Couples held hands all over campus, women dressing in pink, men blushing red and  _ aw, shucks _ at a kiss. 

In the library as the night wore down, Fundy left with a wink and a “I’ve got a very special date tonight. Dream, don’t expect me back for a while,” and Ponk didn’t show at all.

“I’m going back to my room,” Dream said. “Crazy that Fundy won’t be there.”

“Isn’t it?” George packed up his bag. “I’ll join you.”

They weren’t often in Dream’s dorm room. Fundy had overtaken most of the space with his mess and last semester they’d always hung out in George and Sapnap’s dorm room. Now that wasn’t an option, but Fundy was always there anyway, and they had their study sessions in the library.

Dream unlocked the door and held it open for George. He walked in, flicked on the overhead lights. Sat himself on Dream’s bed, tucking his hands underneath his legs, and watched him put his bags down and take his coat off. He looked over at George, sitting expectantly on his bed, and a smile flickered across his face.

“Do you want something?”

George stuck his tongue out. “What could I possibly want?”

Dream reached over and locked his door. “Maybe a kiss?”

“We could start there,” George said, and Dream moved to stand in front of him, pressing slow, soft kisses to his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks. He ran his hands through George’s hair, pulling him in close, and George breathed him in. Smell of his cologne and something else, something that felt dangerously like the smell George would deem  _ home _ .

“George,” Dream whispered, his breath coming in short. “Fuck. Fuck,  _ George.” _

They hadn’t touched,  _ really _ touched, since January, since the morning Sapnap found them on the couch, embarrassment and shame warring through them, packing their things, tea left cold on the coffee table, driving up to Mulbrang that afternoon. Shivers sparked across him at Dream’s hands on him. He wanted to be closer. He wanted to share his body.

Dream kissed him down, pushing him against the headboard, the tiny bed barely big enough for both of them, ugly ceiling lights flickering above them. Hands ferocious, gripping and pulling, George’s coat and jacket discarded, heavy breathing and desperate whispers. His name in Dream’s mouth like ambrosia. 

There was a sloppiness and a sharpness to the way they moved. In January, after the new year, when they thought they had all the time in the world, the slow and the languid, whispers and laughter. As if they weren’t allowed to have emotions in here, Dream’s dorm room stiflingly small and crowded. Dream’s heels bumped against the wall and the bedframe. George hit his head. They kept their shirts on, their trousers. Couldn’t make too much of a mess. Couldn’t be too careful.

And afterwards. They might have slept, but now Dream clutched George around the waist and kissed the skin at the nape of his neck. Held him tight enough to hurt. 

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck.”

George closed his eyes. Wished them back.

He returned to his room in the middle of the night. Hoped the creak of the door wouldn’t wake Sapnap, his sleeping form illuminated softly from the hallway light. 

He changed into his pajamas in the dark, stepping over his clothes left on the floor, almost tripped over his chair and caught himself, but something fell off his desk and thumped loudly on the floor.

George winced as Sapnap shifted. “George?”

“Hi. Sorry.”

“Mm. ’S fine. Night night.”

He rolled back over and started snoring.

Five minutes later, George was still standing in the same spot, frozen in surprise.

Towards the beginning of March, George was sitting in bed, reading a book and massaging his right leg, which was feeling numb again, when Sapnap stormed in with a letter in his hand, sat at his desk and sliced it sharply open with his letter opener.

George glanced up as he read the letter through once, crumpled it up, and threw himself onto his bed, turning away from George in one swift move.

“Uh,” George said. “Is everything alright?”

“Fuck off,” Sapnap answered.

George went back to his book, and thirty seconds later, Sapnap spoke again.

“Seriously. I don’t want anyone around right now.”

George nodded and carefully hoisted himself off his bed, testing out his legs. His right leg wobbled, but he stayed upright, threw on a jacket, and grabbed his bag.

Dream was working quietly at his desk when George knocked. Fundy let him in. “He’s pretty focused right now.”

“Shh!” Dream said, waving a hand. “I’m working.”

Fundy shrugged. “He’s working.”

George laughed and sat at Fundy’s desk, pulling his book back out.

Eventually, Dream leaned back and sighed. “I’m done.”

“Congratulations,” George said dryly, and Dream whirled around to face him.

“George!” He looked over at Fundy and back again. “When – when did you get here?”

“Maybe half an hour ago.” George glanced at where he’d left his bookmark. “At least twenty pages ago.”

“Oh,” Dream said. “Well, did you want to get some food?”

The mess hall was empty at 3 in the afternoon and Dream and George sat themselves in the kind of corner booth that was usually occupied. 

“Sapnap got a letter,” George said, idly stirring his soup. “He didn’t seem very happy about it.”

Dream winced. “It’s probably from his dad. He’s always trying to convince Sapnap to market for him.”

“What does he sell?”

“Rotary phones.”

George snorted. “As if anyone would buy a rotary phone these days.”

Dream smacked the table. “I know! Touch-tone is  _ so  _ much easier, when I was a kid – ”

“So many problems.”

“I couldn’t work the telephone for shit.”

The happiness rose in George’s stomach. He settled it down. “But I guess that’s a problem for the rotary phone companies.”

Dream shrugged. “I mean, he’s been going out of business for a while now, which is why he tells Sapnap to sell them at school. As if it’ll help. TL ARK was probably  _ the  _ foremost worldwide retailer of rotaries and televisions, but they were late to the game on color television and now that the rotary phone is going out…”

George stared at him. 

Dream blushed. “Mr. Arktos always thought Bad would run the company, as the older brother, so he kind of let Sapnap do whatever he wanted. But now that Bad is a teacher and it looks like he’s  _ not _ going to inherit the company, he’s trying to force that role on Sapnap. But TL ARK is going out of business anyway so Sapnap doesn’t want anything to do with it. Not that he ever has, but his dad’s still trying to pull him in anyway.”

“And all that from  _ Sapnap got a letter he didn’t like.” _

“The only people who would send Sap a letter and not phone him are his parents.”

“Who run a phone company.”

“CEO of the phone company.”

Dream stared at his sandwich, looking miserable. “You know I haven’t seen him since the middle of February?”

George shook his head and Dream slumped in his chair. “I ran into him right outside of the mess hall. He was talking up some chick and I tried to say hi and he looked…” He shook his head. “He looked  _ scared.” _

“Scared,” George echoed.

Dream nodded. “That was the worst feeling, I think. He was afraid of me.”

Spring break was marked by Sapnap’s sudden disappearance from the dorm room. Sunday morning George awoke to him getting dressed at 5 AM.

“Wha’s … hullo?”

Sapnap, quiet. “Go back to sleep.”

“Oh, okay.”

When he woke up again, Sapnap was gone.

That afternoon, Dream and George got into a car with the weight of where they were going on their shoulders and drove down to Manhattan. George called Eret from a gas station.

“We’re maybe two hours away.”

“ _ You could stand to be closer.” _

“Aw, do you miss me?”

“ _ I need my beauty rest, George, it’s not about you.” _

They drove down the Hudson, snow and ice on the trees looming skeletal over them, the quiet of the wheels against the pavement and the constant rush of water beside them. Dream had called it the “scenic route,” looking over at George with a raw expression that could have flayed him alive. 

The air was thick between them. George had invited Dream to Eret’s club, his performance.  _ It’s a gay club. It’s not very clean but everyone there is careful, and smart. No one will recognize you. _

Dream had said,  _ I can kiss you in front of other people? _

_ Descend lower, descend only / Into the world of perpetual solitude, _ George thought, looking out the window at the river, dark with cold, shivering and retreated, ice chunks floating lazily southwards, getting smaller as they melted.  _ The world of perpetual solitude.  _ The Stonewall Inn was dark, dingy, different from the Lord Ranelagh or even the Catacombs. Something was sadder, something was angrier. The butch girls folded their arms in the corners, narrowed eyes scanning the crowd. The dance floor, parting like the Red Sea for the queens, dressed in their finest and painted for the gods. Stonewall was three seconds from bursting into tears.

_ The world of perpetual solitude. _ Was George equating drag clubs to hell? He almost laughed. He must have, because it caught Dream’s attention. 

“What’s funny?”

“I was thinking about drag,” George said. “And T.S. Eliot.”

“Do you think Eliot ever went to a gay club?”

“Are you kidding? He was the main attraction.”

Dream laughed and they sped down the highway, making their way for New York City.

The sky was dark when they arrived, but the streets were bustling with people. Screams, laughter, sirens. Dream made his way carefully through alleys, demanding directions from George, who was holding the map upside down.

“That’s the wrong fucking way around, George!” Dream snatched the map from him and turned it right-side up, shoving it back at him as the light turned green and he shot forward. A taxi honked and someone swore at him.

“Well  _ I _ don’t drive!”

“Can you  _ read?” _

“It’s dark!”

“Where are we  _ going, _ George? TELL ME WHERE TO TURN!”

“I don’t  _ know!  _ Just drive until you reach Christopher Street?”

“Please tell me where Christopher Street is. Please. I would love to know.”

George squinted at the map, lit by passing street lights. “Okay, it’s in Greenwich Village.”

“We  _ passed  _ Greenwich Village five minutes ago.”

“So turn around.”

Dream gritted his teeth and shook his head. “I hate you so much.”

“You’re such an arsehole.”

“ _ Arsehole,” _ Dream mocked snidely. 

They ended up making another payphone call, George shivering in the cold air as Dream sat in the car. With heating. George flipped him off.

“ _ Hello?” _

“Hi, Eret, it’s George.”

“ _ You’re late.” _

“We’re lost.”

“ _ Where are you?” _

“Manhattan.”

“ _ Oh my God. What intersection, George.” _

“2nd and…” George peered around. “23rd.”

“ _ Go west on 23rd and turn left on 7th. It’ll intersect with Christopher Street and you can turn right and find parking there.” _

Ten minutes later, sitting in stony silence in the car, they found parking on a side street just off Christopher. Dream leapt out and slammed the door. “What house are we going to?”

George pulled their suitcases from the back and closed the trunk. “Follow me.” 

If he didn’t know what Christopher Street was, he wouldn’t have seen anything. But he did know, and it was glorious. Men loitered around the shops and street corners, queens walking with their heads held high and heels clicking evenly on the sidewalk. The blinking lights of the clubs, the quiet rumbles of house parties. It vibrated with life, the flagrant display of  _ deviance, immorality _ thrust in the face of society

George patted his arm. “Welcome to queer New York.”

They moved through the quietly mingling men on the sidewalk, eyes all over them, their bodies, their stances, the way they walked.  _ Can I trust you? _ George was easy to pinpoint, the shrug of his shoulder, the tilt of his head. Dream, Dream was a question for them, and they were hesitant with him.

George’s suitcase wheel got caught on a bump in the sidewalk and it took him a second to pull it free. Someone laughed and he looked up, a man winking at him from where he lounged against a storefront. Dream waited for him at a corner, and when George caught up to him, he ran a hand down Dream’s arm and shot a glance at the man who had laughed.

Eret’s apartment was a four-story walk up just off the Christopher Street subway station. George hit the buzzer with his fist. “Let us in.”

A few moments later, the door unlocked, and all six feet and three inches of Eret loomed in the doorway, arms outstretched for a hug. “George!”

“I need to sleep,” George said, pushing past him.

“Fucking rude.”

“Hello,” Dream said, shifting awkwardly in the doorway. “Again. Hello again. I’m Dream.”

“George’s little boyfriend, yes, I know,” Eret said, peering at him. “I’ve met you before.”

George watched as Eret folded his hands behind his back and frowned at Dream, like a father assessing his daughter’s date. Dream looked the part too, hopeful and nervous, messy blond hair pulled up behind his head, glasses smudged.

“You pass,” Eret said. “Go ahead.”

“There was a test?” Dream asked, scampering inside.

Eret locked the door behind him. “Doorman won’t let you in unless you look like a faggot.”

Dream looked utterly lost.

“At the bar,” George supplemented. “Can we please just sleep, Eret?”

Eret waved a hand at him. “Knock yourself out. Door’s open.”

George hurried up the stairs, his suitcase knocking against each step as he went. He pushed his way into Eret’s crowded apartment, the second door in the hallway, immediately dropped himself onto the bed in the guest room, and fell asleep. 

It had been a very long time since George had woken up in Dream’s arms, and now he was back. Eret’s apartment was dark, no windows in the guest room, and if it weren’t for the digital clock next to the bed, he would have never known the time. Dream was clinging to him, octopus-like, his leg looped over George’s and arm tight around his hip, hand lying flat on his stomach.

5:42. 5:43. 

George watched the clock with glazed-over eyes until they started to fall shut again. He tangled his fingers with Dream’s and nestled himself further into his warmth. Went back to sleep.

Three hours later, Eret, always an early riser, was banging on the door. “Rise and shine! I made breakfast!”

“Fuck you,” George groaned, throwing an arm out and hitting an empty half of the bed. “Fuck you!”

“Dream’s in the kitchen with me,” Eret taunted. “If you want morning kisses you gotta get up.”

“Dream can come  _ here _ and give ‘em.” 

Thirty seconds later, the door opened and Dream entered, his face bright and hair wet from the shower. “George!”

“What.”

“Good morning.” Dream sat down on the bed and George rolled over to peer up at him. At the door, Eret rolled his eyes and left. “How are you?”

“Want to sleep more.”

“You slept for so long.  _ I _ want to go sightseeing.”

“We can go sightseeing later.”

“But it’s going to be so crowded later,” Dream reasoned, his hand lightly petting George’s hair. George pressed into the touch. “If we go now we can avoid the rush.”

George sighed as Dream moved his hand to cup his face. 

“ _ Please,  _ George.”

“Fine.”

Dream lunged forward and pressed a huge, wet kiss to George’s mouth. “Thank you! Thank you! Come on, get up!” He pulled on George’s hands. “Get up.”

Bit by torturous bit, George rolled out of bed, until he was standing in front of Dream, messy and cotton mouthed and a little sweaty. Dream turned his hands over, fingers tracing along the veins and the bones, his mouth moving softly to words George couldn’t hear. Eventually, he looked up, his eyes smiling.

“George, can I kiss you?”

In response, George pushed himself up on his tiptoes and leaned in.

It took him longer than Dream wanted to get ready, but an hour later they headed out into the city, weaving through the flocks of people already gathered on the sidewalks and waiting for buses and subways. The days were slowly getting longer and already little springs of green were shooting up in flower beds and the cracks in the sidewalks. George shed his heavy coat and Dream put his hair up, and George wanted to touch, but couldn’t.

Tourists were disgusting, George decided, but unfortunately he and Dream were those tourists. They took up too much time in the photo booth, nestled in the corner of the Statue of Liberty lobby. They hovered around the slot as the incriminating pictures came slowly printing out. Laughter first, and then the moment George had hit his elbow on Dream’s head. The third picture, George holding Dream’s face in his hands, worried, as Dream laughed. A kiss. They folded them up and put them away. Fear looked over their shoulders, taunted them.  _ What if someone sees. What if someone knows. _

Dream’s Kodak and a roll of film. George next to the waterfront, looking out over the bay. Dream’s hair whipping around his face at the top of the Statue of Liberty. A weird, half-blurry photo they’d tried to take of themselves, and then the one taken by a stranger they’d done their best to look platonic for, standing just far enough away from each other, arms thrown awkwardly around each other’s shoulders.

And the difference the nighttime made. Dream stood several feet away from George, his hands tucked into his pockets. The rhinestones Eret had tucked into his braid glittered under the streetlights, making him look a little more magical, a little brighter. He had taken his glasses off, and he looked a little small without them. His cheekbones stood out like this, his face no longer framed by his long, wild hair. 

George took his hand. “You know you can hold my hand here?”

Dream started, looking around wildly before calming down. “I didn’t – I wasn’t expecting to be able to.”

George kissed his cheek. The lipstick left a slight smudge and George smiled to himself. “That’s the point, you know. To hold my hand. To kiss me.”

Dream shrugged. “I wasn’t – I wasn’t sure.” 

George looked up at the brick doorframe, underneath the blinking sign.  _ STONEWALL. _ Two girls leaned against the wall, button ups and short hair, fingers hooked into each others’ belt loops. “How were you not sure?”

“Th-they could be just friends,” Dream spluttered, and George swung in close, hands on Dream’s hips, voice low, lips brushing his:

“Could we just be friends?” 

And felt the heat rise off his skin, his hands tremble, his mouth stutter. George pulled away, let their fingers untangle, and sauntered towards the entrance. He looked over his shoulder at Dream, whose face was dark with blush and shock and arousal. “You coming?”

The doorman took one look at them as George pushed a folded-up bill into his hands and rolled his eyes, the door immediately swinging open and George led Dream inside.  _ The world of perpetual solitude.  _

George glanced over at Dream, made beautiful under the low light. Not so perpetual, after all. 

People mingled around them. Men, women. Those who weren’t men or women. Queens and kings, slinky dresses squeezing around them and sending winks in a backwards glance. The dance floor to the right, packed and hypnotic in their energy, a daze of heightened emotion and movement. The other, to the left, slow dancing and drunk, hands and arms and legs and bodies. The music was overwhelming, a constant white noise backdropping everything else. Clink of bottles and the beer at the bar, and Dream leaned down to whisper in his ear, “Think they have a liquor license?”

George squinted at him. “I know  _ why _ they don’t have a liquor license.”

Dream shook his head. “Don’t tell me.”

George stepped in front of him, towards the second dance floor. “Instead of talking about legality, how would you feel about dancing with me?”

Dream clasped their hands together, and George backed them into the second dance floor.

This time, he wasn’t drunk. This time, it was Dream under his fingers and his hands, not a stranger, not alone in a country he didn’t call home anymore. The floor was sticky, the air sickly sweet, but Dream was pressed up all along his front, big hands on George’s waist and neck, breath hot against his skin.

George pushed up to kiss him and Dream’s hand tightened on the back of his neck, pulling him in close, making him stumble. People bumped into them on all sides but they just moved in closer, George fisting one hand in Dream’s shirt as his tongue pushed into Dream’s mouth, the bitter taste of alcohol, among other things, still coating his throat. 

And they were  _ making out.  _ In front of people, dozens of people, and nobody cared, and ran his fingers along Dream’s hips and felt his soft skin and nobody cared. George lost himself to it, the quiet shame around him and even the filth under his feet, but he had the  _ one good thing _ here, had him in his arms.

They separated, eventually, Dream’s eyes dark even as George pulled back, his hair mussed but still intact, his shirt skewed and crumpled where George had gripped it. Red lipstick smeared all over his mouth, and George was sure he was no better. Dazed, he tried to pat his hair back into place.

“Why would you fix it?” Dream asked, batting his hand away and messing his hair back up. “You… you look…”

George wiped a little lipstick away with his thumb. “Let’s go see Eret dance.”

The other dance floor was bigger, the bar packed, and people loitered around the walls, smoking and drinking. Dream kept a tight hold on George’s hand as they made their way through the crowd, looking for Eret’s tall, curly hair.

“There,” George said, and his breath caught in his throat.

She was fixing her silver tiara in the bathroom, the door slightly ajar, dark, smoky eyes staring into the mirror. Her hair, usually so messy, was painstakingly curled and set in place with hairspray, the same rhinestones in Dream’s hair adorning her own, casting gentle reflections on the walls and ceiling. Her lipstick was the same color she’d used on George, and he wondered how often anyone came out to support her performances. How she’d made him and Dream beautiful, in her image.

The real pièce de résistance, though, was her dress. Gauzy pink fabric falling to her ankles, embroidered with tiny little sequined strawberries, and fluttery sleeves that draped over her shoulders. It floated around her like a cloud, tied with little pink ribbons in front, swirling over her heels. She looked strong. She looked gorgeous. She looked, George thought, and something in his chest clenched, proud.

“You look beautiful,” George said, and it came out so raw and so honest he thought he might cry.

“Oh!” Eret looked up. “George!” She exited the bathroom, closing the door behind her, and around her hovered the sweet smell of cherries. “Thank you. I – I saved for it.” She adjusted her tiara again, glanced around the room.

“No, you didn’t,” George said, looking her in the eye. “Of course you didn’t.”

The change was immediate, the movement in her shoulders and hips and eyes. “Why would I?” She twirled for him, tight and controlled, the dress moving lazily along after her, swishing with her every move. Gave him a wink. “You know you’ve got a little something right here.” She extended a painted nail and swiped at the corner of his mouth. 

George blushed.

“I’ll see you around, darling.”

She made her way to the front of the floor and the queen with control of the mic gave her a nod. “Introducing to the world... The One,”

“What was that?” Dream asked, sounding thunderstruck, moving forward. “It was like he was just different, all of a sudden.”

“ _ The Only,” _

“She,” George corrected. “That was – ”

“ _ The Heiress of Christopher Street!”  _

Wolf whistles, and cheers, and yells, and Heiress appeared glittering at the other end, light and airy, dainty. She didn’t look 6’3”. She didn’t look like she lived in a fourth story walk-up, with two windows and a broken radiator. She looked like she ate caviar for a Tuesday snack. Extravagance. An oval-shaped locket hung at the hollow of her throat, gilded and glittering gold, gaudy against the dress. 

“You know, my daddy bought me this little thing,” she drawled, giving her dress a flick. 

Someone yelled something about being her daddy and she ignored him.

“I just wanted to… wear it out, for a night on the town.” She took a step forward. Her voice was breathy, almost sing-song. “For a night of...  _ dancing _ .”

[ The music ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QE0qaIk8LRo) kicked off and she strutted down the dance floor in earnest, blew a kiss to Dream and George. 

_ He gave me the eye _ _   
_ _ But I just passed him by _ _   
_ _ I treated him unkind _ _   
_ _ But he didn’t seem to mind _

She pulled a man in towards her, and he went willingly before she pushed him away with a laugh, a twirl, and kept going.

_ I told him be on his way _ _   
_ _ But not a word did he say _ _   
_ _ He just stood there kind of bold _ _   
_ _ While I acted cold _

She had reached the front again, turned her back to all of them, and then looked over her shoulder with a wink.

_ But when the lovelight starts shining through his eyes _ _   
_ _ Made me realize I should apologize _ _   
_ _ And when he placed a kiss upon my face _ __   
_ Then I knew, oh then I knew _ _   
_ __ That he won my heart

The music faded out and Heiress cocked her head, a hand on her hip, her chest heaving from exertion. Her bright lips were curled in a smirk, eyes dark. Her tiara had stayed in place the whole time, through the kicks and turns and flirting.

She danced through two more songs,  _ Runnin’ out of Fools  _ and  _ I Want to be Evil _ , baring her teeth for the latter, lipstick dark against the bright white of her teeth, little red nails curled into claws, trailing along George’s cheek, effortlessly sending a shiver down his spine.

She curtsied, the strawberry dress billowing around her, the crowd bellowing, and made her exit, just as beautiful and ethereal as when she’d entered. 

“Holy shit,” Dream said. “That was…”

George looked up at him. This was the moment Eret had invited Dream to see her perform for. For George, for this moment.

“So much fun.”

George felt his face stretch into a broad grin.

They were making their way back to the entrance, where they’d confirmed they’d meet Eret after her performance, when a voice behind them said, “Hello, George.”

George turned at the voice, low and sharp. Short, shorn hair, a firm jawline. Crossed arms. A loose, white button-down and pleated trousers. He frowned. “Do I know you?”

“I saved you from certain death not three months ago.”

“Oh my god, Technoblade?”

“The one ‘n only.”

“Technoblade, my  _ dear!” _ Eret appeared out of nowhere and Dream jumped. “I’ve missed you! We’ve missed you here.”

“I’m sure you haven’t.”

“Where have you been?” Eret asked, and Technoblade glanced over at Dream and George. 

Oh, shit.

George rushed to save the situation. “Uh, Eret – ”

“I actually ran into this one in London,” Techno said, giving George a firm pat on the shoulder. He winced. “We had a nice chat.”

“You  _ did?” _ Eret’s face lit up. “Well, you know I’ve been meaning to introduce you two, actually. I thought you might really hit it off.”

“Yeah, I saw him standin’ around at the Lord Ranelagh and offered him some water.” Technoblade chuckled. “He really looked like he needed it.”

“He _ saw  _ you standing?” Eret asked, her eyebrows furrowing. “George, who did you go to the Ranelagh with?”

George shook his head.

Eret’s voice went stern. “George.  _ Who _ did you go to the Lord Ranelagh with?”

Technoblade’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. George glared at him. “Oh. I didn’t. I’ve caused a problem.”

“What’s the Lord Ranelagh?” Dream asked, sounding lost. George dropped his head into his hands.

“It’s a  _ rather _ infamous bar in London.” Eret’s voice sounded close. “George. Did you break my number one rule?”

“George?” Dream sounded quiet, distant. And then, “What’s the number one rule?”

“Don’t go clubbin’ alone,” Technoblade said. “I’m Technoblade.”

“Dream.”

“Good to meet you, Dream.”

“You went clubbing  _ alone in London?” _ Eret’s voice was almost a screech. “Are you stupid? Did you lose brain cells somewhere along the way?”

“Technically – ”

“Not now, Techno. George. What on  _ Earth _ possessed you to do something so wildly stupid?” 

Dream’s hand found its way up to George’s hair and stayed there, hesitant. George leaned into the touch, desperate.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I… I don’t know.”

“You’re going to have to do better than  _ I don’t know.” _

George thought about it. Dream on the television, his mom, the Tchaikovsky, his grandmother, the constant anger and vitriol.

“It’s my family, Eret,” he finally said, looking up. “I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

Eret softened, and cupped George’s face before releasing it. “You have this one, now,” he said, nodding at Dream. “Don’t do it again.”

George buried his face in Dream’s shoulder and felt his arm wrap around him. “I won’t.”

The walk to Eret’s apartment was slow, the four of them jostling each other, Eret having invited Techno to sleep on the couch. Dream had a gentle hand on George’s neck and his thumb stroked his jaw, back and forth, soothing. Quiet words, soft laughter, and the stairs creaky under their feet as they walked to the fourth floor.

George wiped the lipstick off as Dream pulled the rhinestones carefully from his hair, standing next to him in Eret’s tiny bathroom.

“In London,” Dream said softly, carefully. “When you went out to the bar. Did – did you...”

George nodded. “Yeah. This… this guy. Danced with him. Don’t even remember his name.” He stared at Dream in the mirror. “Hated it. Got out of it. That’s when Techno found me.”

Dream pressed a kiss into George’s hair. “Let’s go to sleep.”

The room, dark and warm. They squeezed next to each other in the small bed, buried under mounds of blankets, and they faced each other, their heads on the pillows, noses brushing and breath hot. Dream folded their hands together between them and they fell asleep like that, turned in like two halves of a heart.

George woke the next morning, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, to an empty bed. He rubbed his eyes again. It was still blurry. Something was in his right eye, maybe an eyelash. He sighed, squinted at the clock. 9:31. He staggered out of bed to go to the bathroom and his right leg collapsed under him.

He sat in a heap on the floor, dug his nails into his right calf until tiny red crescents appeared in his flesh. 

No pain. He couldn’t feel a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Dream reads at the beginning of the chapter is Somewhere i have never travelled, by E. E. Cummings. It has some themes that will become important soon. 
> 
> St. Sebastian ended up kind of becoming a gay icon - in part because Baroque artists always painted him as a hot and sexy little himbo being penetrated by arrows. Other than that, no one is quite sure how he got to his queer status. The "erotic nature of pain?" How there’s something feminine about the way he stands (he literally has arrows sticking out of him)? [Here's](https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/art/features/arrows-desire-how-did-st-sebastian-become-enduring-homo-erotic-icon-779388.html) a good article on him. I remember seeing a painting of St. Sebastian in real life once - one of the famous ones, though I can’t remember which - and I was absolutely entranced. That was before I knew I was queer, too, so. mlm and non binary solidarity, I guess. The interpretation that Dream and George are looking at, by the way, is [this one](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Sebastian#/media/File:Sodoma_003.jpg). No idea where that painting might have been in 1967, but let’s pretend it was on loan to the Met. 
> 
> There doesn’t seem to be much out there about what gay men in a relationship would have called their significant other back in the 60s, so I mostly dance around it, as does Dream. Lovers? Partners? [This](http://www.nycnotkansas.com/GaySixties.htm) incredible website relays a genuine, accurate and heartfelt depiction of what gay relationships were like then - if you have the time, check the whole website out, it’s really, really cool. 
> 
> January, 1967. An enormous blizzard absolutely buried Chicago. 
> 
> Touch-tone telephones were invented in 1963, and although rotary phones weren’t really phased out until the 80s, I would assume they started to decline in popularity. Thus, poor Sapnap’s father.
> 
> Finally, the Stonewall Inn and Christopher Street. The Stonewall Inn is moderately famous but for anyone who’s not up to date on queer history: the Stonewall Inn was a mafia-run bar that paid off the police to keep them from shutting it down since they didn’t have a liquor license. It catered mostly to gay men and was located on Christopher Street, which in the 60s and especially the 70s was a sort of safe haven (safer haven) for queer folks. Police often raided the Stonewall Inn (forewarning the mafia owners but not the patrons) and arrested anyone who was “deviant;” women had to be wearing at least three pieces of women’s clothing, and vice versa for men. This meant a lot of drag queens and kings were arrested, beaten, physically and sexually assaulted at the hands of cops. They never shut down the establishment, because they were getting paid not to, but it didn’t stop them from the arrests.   
> On the evening of June 28, 1969, the cops executed another raid; this one, however, was a surprise. People who were there later said that there was something in the air, that they were tired of getting beaten up and pushed down, and that everyone there felt it. No one is sure who “threw the first brick,” as the saying goes (although last chapter I proposed it was Stormé deLarverie) but someone started a fight, which started the famous Stonewall Riots. They lasted a week and kickstarted the gay rights movement and in the 70s Christopher Street became the epicenter of queer New York.
> 
> The first song Heiress dances to is When the Lovelight Starts Shining Through his Eyes, by the Supremes! From [what I've read](https://www.quora.com/What-kind-of-music-was-played-in-the-late-1960s-in-gay-bars-like-the-Stonewall-Inn), most gay bars would have played female crooners, R&B, or Motown, and I thought that the sort of “cold hearted girl is wooed by a loving man” is exactly the kind of drag queen Heiress would be. Aretha Franklin and Eartha Kitt have also become two lasting icons in the gay community and I Want to be Evil simply slaps. 
> 
> Where Were You… When Eret Wore The Strawberry Dress…. i was sitting on my bed with my hands over my mouth, tearing up with every subsequent gift she received and then put on. drop where you were when eret wore the strawberry dress in the comments… 
> 
> thank you so, so much for your support! please leave a kudos or comment if you liked it or have something to say, or talk to me on tumblr @princedemeter! mwah.


	9. BURNT NORTON - and the lotos rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It would have been laughable if it wasn’t so sad. All the hope and righteous fury for the sanctity of human life, and for what? To be a passing glance in an article in tomorrow’s newspaper? To gain the attention, for a split second, of people who in one motion could obliterate the very street they were standing on?_
> 
> _And then, the name Dream had been expecting to hear._
> 
> _HEY, HEY! HO, HO!  
>  HENRY GAUMORT HAS GOT TO GO!  
> HEY, HEY! HO, HO!  
> HENRY GAUMORT HAS GOT TO GO! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY FUCKING SHIT. THANK YOU GUYS SO FUCKING MUCH!!!! SO, SO MUCH!!!!! 
> 
> PART ONE BURNT NORTON IS COMPLETE!!!! This is the farthest I’ve EVER gotten on a multichaptered WIP. I can’t believe how many words I’ve written (60,618!!! Holy shit) and I’m so, so excited for you to read what I have in store. I’m so grateful to you all for your support and incredibly kind comments, everyone who’s contacted me or hyped me up, thank you!!!! 
> 
> (By the way, the Burnt Norton document on my google drive is 159 pages long. Holy shit!)
> 
> This chapter was going SO badly and then I sent it to my beautiful betas Jules, Light, and Aenqa and they fucking KNOCKED it out of the park and helped me out SO much. They’re all so incredible. That’s @notourz or @technopine, @lightns881 and @aenqa on tumblr. Only the cool kids follow them unfortunately so if you’re not following them I hate to break it to you: You’re not a cool kid :(
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS THIS CHAPTER FOR: weed and alcohol usage, a scene in which a character vomits, war mentions, gore mentions, implied parental emotional abuse, conservativism.  
> a side note - despite how numerous they are, these are all brief and I really don’t go into much detail. this chapter is heavy but not necessarily with triggers, if that makes sense
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy and thank you all so much for reading my little passion project :)

God, Dream couldn’t stop thinking about him. 

George, under all those red lights, skin glowing and his eyes so dark they were black, lipstick smeared on his mouth, a trail of it on his neck. His smile, so wicked and smart and gorgeous, and on the other hand, his lips parted in awe and arousal, all because of Dream. All because of Dream. 

George kissing him on the sidewalk, kissing the top of his head when Eret braided the rhinestones in, getting on his tip toes and kissing his jaw when they got home because he tried to aim for his cheek and missed. The two of them, dancing together, surrounded by a hundred other people, and it didn’t matter. It  _ didn’t matter. _ They could be in love and it didn’t –

Oh, God. They could be in love. 

The apartment bell buzzed.

Dream started, looking around. George was curled up, covers pulled up to his chin, dead to the world beside him. Behind him, the clock on the bedside table read 3:27 AM. Who the fuck –

The bell buzzed again. Dream listened intently,  _ hopefully, _ for any sound from Eret’s room, but the apartment was silent. 

He sighed and pulled the covers back and got out of bed, slipping his bare feet into his loafers, which were uncomfortably sticky. He hurried down the stairs, already regretting not pulling on a sweater as the frigid air seeped through the thin walls of the apartment. He took the stairs two at a time at the bottom, hurried across the foyer, wrenched open the front door and froze. 

In front of him stood Sapnap, his hair greasy, bags under his eyes and in his hands. His face was red with dried tears, cold wafting from his winter coat.

“Sapnap?”

Sapnap’s jaw clenched. “Hi.”

“What – what are you doing h – what – ”

Sapnap pressed his lips together as Dream trailed into shocked silence. “Can I come in?”

Dream stepped aside to let him in and closed the door behind him.

The street lamps outside bathed the living room in salty orange light. They sat on the couch, facing each other, cross-legged and a bottle between them, a familiar pose. Years ago: two teenagers, one more in love than the other, desperately lonely and revelling in each others’ presence, leaning in towards each other, swapping out the stolen bottle of whiskey. Now, a chasm spread between them, the two of them standing on opposite sides. Sapnap, reaching for the bottle, bridged the gap.

“Do you remember when I was… I dunno, fourteen or fifteen, and my dad had to go to court because of that…” Sapnap wiped his lower lip and put the bottle down. “Because that guy, and I mean, he was full of shit – ”

“The insider trading thing?” Dream asked. “Didn’t your dad settle?”

Sapnap shrugged. “Yeah.” He stared at the couch.

“So…” Dream tried. “He’s going to court again?”

Sapnap closed his eyes. “He’s been… he’s been to court already. He – right before spring break, he asked me to come home as soon as I could. He said there were – ” Sapnap snorted. His hands curled into finger quotes. “ _ Important things I needed to know.” _

He fell silent.

“What happened?” Dream asked after a long pause.

“Fucking shit.  _ SHIT!” _ Sapnap threw back his head and took a long drink. “He should have – you know he wanted me to take over TL ARK when he retired? And he still didn’t say shit about anything.” He dropped the bottle onto the coffee table. “SEC’s been investigating him for months.  _ Months. _ And he’s just been acting like everything’s fine. I mean, he’s been in debt for years, and how are they thinkin’ he’s fucking with his stocks and he’s still in debt? I don’t fucking get it.”

“The SEC?” Dream asked, taking a swig from the bottle. “I feel like they’re always after us.”

“But this time they think they  _ have  _ something. Actual evidence.”

“Okay,” Dream said.

“They froze our assets.”

“They fucking  _ what?” _

Sapnap sighed. “They – according to my dad, there was a routine Compliance inspection and the only weird thing was that there was an Enforcement guy on the team. But it happens to us all the time, so he said he didn’t think anything of it.” He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “And apparently they found somethin’, and they took it to a judge.”

“Fuck.”

“And this piece a’ shit basically gave them the jurisdiction to do whatever the fuck they wanted, and so they froze everything. Bank accounts, all of our investments.  _ My trust fund,” _ Sapnap wailed.

“Your  _ trust fund?” _

Sapnap took another long drink. “Cuz they don’t know if I was involved, since I’m over eighteen, even though it’s not like I have  _ shit _ to do with the fucking company, so I can’t pull from it.” He put the bottle down and scrubbed the heel of his hand across his mouth. “He didn’ tell me  _ anything.  _ Anything.”

Sapnap sighed. “You know, I said to him, I said there has to be more somewhere, right? He said. He said to me,” and Sapnap pitched his voice deep, “ _ Son. We don’t have any money left. I do not expect to see a change in the very near future. _ Any money, huh? This bastard, this fuckin’ scuzz bucket, we’re  _ made  _ of money. What kind of dipshit doesn’t keep a sock drawer full ‘a cash underneath their bed, huh?” He slammed a fist into the couch. “Me. And now he’s sayin’ I gotta pay for fucking college by myself. And he just gave me the bill and walked out, huh?” 

“I mean, my family can help you out with college – ”

“Do you know how  _ mad _ he’d be?” Sapnap interrupted, a scowl on his face. “If I asked  _ the Gaumorts _ for help? As if we’re  _ beggars. _ As if I can’t afford  _ college.” _

“You can’t.”

“Shut the  _ fuck  _ up.”

Dream sighed and threw up his hands. “Well what are you gonna do then? Just hope that the SEC decides that they’re actually going to put some effort in and get it done quickly?”

“Have you ever met the SEC?”

“That’s my fucking point, Sapnap. If they froze everything then you don’t have any  _ options. _ Our families have been friends for a long time – ”

“You mean  _ we’ve _ been friends for a long time. You don’t hear the way my father talks about yours.”

Dream froze. Sapnap, the bottle halfway to his lips, also stopped short.

“What do you mean?” Dream asked, his voice hollow.

Slowly, Sapnap lowered the bottle. 

“What do you  _ mean, _ Sapnap.”

“Forget I said it.”

“I’m not going to.”

Sapnap inhaled deeply, and the words came tumbling out. “I think he’s jus’ jealous of how fast your dad became wealthy – ”

“Get to the point.”

“ – and how your family’s famous an’ powerful and he, well apparently  _ he _ has to fuckin’ scam people in order to stay in his fuckin’ tax bracket – ”

“ _ Tell me!” _

“He hates yer fuckin’ dad, okay! He talks trash about him all the time, thinks he’s a piece a’ shit, thinks he’s a warmonger and a murderer and he says he doesn’ care about you guys!”

Dream scoffed. “Who’s  _ you guys?” _

“His KIDS!”

Dream’s heart stopped.

Sapnap, slurring, was on a roll. “He’s got a coupl’a you and his wife to make ‘im look like a fuckin’ family man, and he doesn’ actually care about you. He doesn’ want you home fer Christmas, he doesn’ care about you enough to actually  _ love  _ you, he jus’ wants you all as his li’l  _ puppets _ – ”

“Is this _you_ speaking now or your _father?”_ Dream snarled, standing. “Because now this sounds like what _you_ ** _really_** think. And what, you think your dad’s any better? Where was Bad in all of this?”

“Keep Bad’s name outta your mouth.”

“I don’t think I will. Your dad would  _ disinherit _ Bad if he could. He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about him, just uses him as his little war hero son who got his arm blown off to make  _ HIMSELF  _ look good – ”

“At leas’ he tried to pro _ TECK _ me.” Sapnap rose to meet Dream. “Maybe he didn’ tell me anything but it means I’m not gonna go down for  _ any _ a’ this. What abou’  _ you? _ Your dad lets you in on  _ everything. _ You think it means he cares about you but he’ll let you die for ‘im in a  _ sec – ” _

“What the  _ fuck _ is going on in here?”

Dream and Sapnap turned to see Eret standing in the mouth of the hallway, his curly hair messy with bedhead. He squinted at them. “ _ Sapnap?” _

“What,” Sapnap said, swaying on his feet.

“I thought – ” Eret began, and then shook his head. “Nevermind.”

“It – ” Dream started, and stopped. He looked over at Sapnap, whose head was hung. He was staring at the floor. 

“Well, whatever’s going on, shut the fuck up,” Eret said. “It’s 4:30 in the morning.”

He turned back into his room and shut the door.

The two of them stood there for a second, neither of them saying a word.

“You should go to bed,” Dream eventually muttered. 

Sapnap sniffed a little. “You’re lettin’ me stay?”

Dream shrugged. “I don’t know where else you would go.”

Sapnap slumped back onto the couch. “Thank you.”

“You should talk to George tomorrow morning, though,” Dream said. “I’m not gonna… I’m not gonna explain all this to him.”

“Oh.” Sapnap bit his lip. “Are you guys… are you still…”

“Yes,” Dream said, a little too loud, a little defensive. “We are.”

“Okay,” Sapnap said. “That’s uh… cool.”

“You don’t think that.”

“You don’t  _ know  _ what I think.”

Dream recoiled a little, and realized that Sapnap shrunk further into himself as well. He took a deep breath. “We should sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

Sapnap nodded and curled his legs into his chest, his eyes already drooping shut. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” Dream echoed. He grabbed a blanket from the armchair and unfolded it, laid it over Sapnap. “Sleep well.

“I’m gonna.”

“Okay, Sapnap.”

“D’you forgive me?”

Dream froze.

It was so quiet, those words, soft and muffled, consonants all rounded and elided together, but clear enough. Dream tried to get a sound out, tried to answer, but before he could think of anything to say, Sapnap was asleep, drooling into the back of the couch. 

Dream stood up and pulled a sheet of paper from a pad near the telephone. He scribbled on it,  _ DO NOT DISTURB SLEEPING SAPNAP. ASK DREAM 4 CLARIFic _ _ ation _ . The paper ran out of space at the end, and it looked messy, but it got the job done. 

He taped the paper to Sapnap’s arm, turned off the lamp, returned to the guest room, and clambered into bed, where George had stolen all the covers . 

George turned, seeking him, even in his sleep and Dream trailed a hand up his side, his soft skin, the thin cotton of his fraying t-shirt. He mumbled something unintelligible and Dream pressed a kiss to his hair. “Sorry?”

“The ground moon.”

“What’s the ground moon?” Dream murmured absently, pulling the covers back to his side even as George pulled them back. 

“No ‘cuz I don’t have tags tags tags taxes.” George’s brow furrowed. “Tags are the problem.”

“Okay, George,” Dream said, and buried his head in the pillow, when he heard another, final whisper.

“the  _ trill _ ing  _ wi _ re  _ in  _ the  _ blood _ ”

A shiver down his spine, and his brain answered with the next lines:  _ Sings below inveterate scars / Appeasing long forgotten wars. _

He didn’t fall asleep for a long time.

George, unusually, was the one to wake him up. “Sapnap’s on the couch.”

Dream groaned and stretched. His elbows hit the wall. “I know he is.”

“Why is he on the couch?”

Dream looked over at the time. 9:52. “Is he awake?”

“No,” George said, folding his arms. “The note said to ask you.”

Dream sat up. “He showed up at 3:30 last night. Didn’t look very good.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “We had a fight.”

“Great. Now he’s asleep in  _ Eret’s _ living room.”

Dream frowned, and looked up at him. “What about Eret?”

George stared at him, his eyes huge. “Are you pulling my leg?”

“No – what – I don’t get what you’re trying to say –

“He’s  _ straight!” _ George hissed. “He’s not  _ safe.” _

“He’s protected me my whole – ”

“ _ You.  _ He’s protected  _ you. _ He’s not going to keep my secret, or Eret’s.”

“He has so far.”

“And who’s to say the second it starts to wear on him he won’t just get it done and over with?”

“Can you not yell at me?” Dream rubbed his eyes. “I’m so sick of people fucking yelling at me.”

George threw up his hands and walked out. “I’m going to go wake Sapnap up.”

Dream scrambled after him. “Please just let him sleep – ”

But George was already there, leaning over Sapnap and shaking him awake, and Sapnap jerked to life, his eyes going wide when he saw George. 

And then his face went green and he bolted up. “Where’s the –  _ mmmnnng – ” _ His eyes cast around.

Dream knew that face. He grabbed a trash can.

He spent ten minutes next to Sapnap, stroking his back as he vomited the alcohol up, his system ridding itself of the whiskey, uncomfortably aware of George watching the two of them.

“Good morning,” Eret said, waltzing into the living room. “How’s everyone’s day?”

Sapnap looked up at him, his eyes glazed over, and then he groaned and dipped his head back into the trash can, his system spilling up the poison in his stomach.

“Not the best morning greeting I’ve ever received, but it’ll have to do.” Eret swept past them. “Would anybody like some tea?”

Eventually, Sapnap sat back up on the couch, his face pale and hands shaking, the trash can emptied of its current bag and replaced with a clean one. George sat sideways in the armchair and Eret, after putting the kettle on, shooed Dream away to the kitchen and pulled a chair up next to the couch.

Sapnap quietly began an abridged version of what he’d told Dream. “I guess it all started months ago. I didn’t know about any of this…” 

As he talked, Dream’s eyes slowly drifted over to George, digging the heel of his palm into his thigh. His eyes were flinty, tracking Sapnap as he shifted uncomfortably on the couch, his hands tucked under his thighs, voice nervous with an edge only Dream would hear. 

_ Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged, _ _  
_ _ And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight _ , his mind supplied, unprompted. 

Sitting in the library with Sapnap, pouring over the pages of Burnt Norton just because George liked it, mouthing the words over and over until he had them memorized, hoping both that Sapnap would notice and that he wouldn’t. So Dream wouldn’t have to say it out loud. So he would never have to say it.

Because even though Sapnap knew what Dream was, he didn’t understand the truth. And here he was, in the home of faggots, baring his throat.

“I didn’t know where to go,” Sapnap said. His eyes found Eret. “I found you in a telephone book. I didn’t know what to do. You said you would be here.” He looked at George, and then Dream. “I needed – ”

He cut himself off and stared at the ground.

George was still, even as he spoke. “Needed what?” 

Sapnap shrugged. “I missed you, I guess.”

“Missed us?”

_ And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly, _ _  
_ _ The surface glittered out of heart of light, _

The kettle began steaming, a whistle building. “Missed us?” George repeated, his voice sharp.

Sapnap bit his lip and looked over at Dream, his eyes pleading.

George stood, his knuckles white on the cushion. “Fuck you.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“How about  _ I’m sorry?” _

Eret was quiet but his voice carried, and when Sapnap looked over at him, his eyes were big, wide, afraid. The kettle squealed.

“I – ” Sapnap stammered. “I’m sorry.” 

George blinked, his face dropping to reveal a split second of shock, and then he pulled a blank expression back over it. “Okay,” he said. And then: “You’d better be.”

_ And they were behind us, reflected in the pool. _ _  
_ _ Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty. _

They left for Mulbrang after two days of stony silence, George sullen in the passenger seat of Dream’s car, the ice melting off the trees, dripping slowly on the road. Sapnap followed behind them, his car, Dream realized, filled with everything he now owned.

A few times he tried to make conversation, and all he got: clipped responses, folded arms, head turned away and staring out the window. Fear rose in him. Worry. He didn’t have the heart to ask,  _ Are you mad at me? _ Kissing each other within an inch of their lives in the bar, George’s mouth red with lipstick and the press of Dream’s lips. It all felt a very long time ago. 

Back in George and Sapnap’s dorm room, they unpacked, the silence in the room eerie. Sapnap desperate for conversation, trying to joke, trying to ease the atmosphere. George turned away, mouth set. 

Not even weed loosened him. His eyes grew red, and he swayed, his hands clenching and unclenching in his sheets. Dream sat at Sapnap’s desk, high and stupid enough to crave George’s touch, and too aware of Sapnap, just the wrong side of loud, the wrong side of laughter.

Eventually, his routine of 5 AM trips to the sculpture studio forced him to leave and he went in for a handshake with Sapnap, who went in for a hug, and then Dream went for the hug and Sapnap tried a handshake. It was wrong. It was off. Everything was wrong. George’s eyes, dark and heavy with pot, staring Dream down as he turned, his skin itching for his touch, his kiss. They didn’t have enough time. They never got enough time.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Dream asked. “We can still have study group on Saturday too.”

George’s expression didn’t flinch. “Sure.”

“And I’ll walk you to class in the afternoon?”

His gaze dragged over to Sapnap, who was looking everywhere but them. “Whatever.”

Dream nodded, and felt his fingers twitch at his side. He rubbed his hands on his thighs and picked up his feet, off the floor. The dorm room door, and its perpetual creak. “Night, Sapnap, George.”

“Good night,” Sapnap called, and the door shut behind him.

He dragged himself to his room and slumped into bed. Jeans, jacket, barely managed to kick off his shoes. The bed was tiny, and it was empty, and Dream was cold. He fell asleep shivering.

His alarm woke him early the next morning, and across the room, Fundy groaned. “Please turn that off.”

Dream slapped the top of the alarm and jumped out of bed. If there was anything in his class schedule to look forward to, it was the one thing that wasn’t actually scheduled.

Campus was wet, the air dry, and Dream was wearing his worst jeans under an ugly green jacket someone (someone vaguely related to him? He couldn’t remember) had sent him for Christmas. It was stained, torn on the sleeve, and didn’t zip up, but that was a fashion thing, apparently, and it was supposed to stay open. Why make a jacket that didn’t close?

He turned the key in the door to the studio and it swung open, a puff of stale air hitting Dream in the face. The sharp smell of clay, the floor covered in it, cracked and dry. 

Dream pulled his jacket off and washed his hands, filled a mug with water. The lights crackled to life above him, blinking sleepily in the early morning. Pale gray sunlight began to seep through the windows, and he pulled a chunk of clay off the block in the corner, slowly being pared down as students pulled from it for their projects.

He sat himself in front of the wheel, wet it, slammed the clay down on it and started turning. Dipped his hands in the water, let them run over the surface, smoothing down the frame. 

It was routine. Slow, steady, and exciting all the same. Something he’d done a thousand times, frustrated, angry, tiring, and exhilarating. Settling into the careful work, the transience of it, and how easily it could all fall apart.

Fuck, how easily it could all fall apart. George was angry at him. It felt like a constant back and forth between them; one wrong move from Dream and they were almost back to square one. Ever since George had realized who Dream was. 

Who Dream was, Dream thought, who was Dream? The son of a man who believed a certain thing. The son of a man who sculpted war, and Dream was a sculptor too, but only in the mornings, before the son rose, only because someone had given him a key. The front of business, and suits, and straight shoulders, and here he was hunched around a pottery wheel, spitting muddy water onto his jeans. His hands in the earth, soft and wet and taking form by his hands.

_ George’s, _ something behind his brain said, very quiet, and Dream stopped the wheel, taking his foot off the pedal. George’s. The concept of being  _ his.  _ Belonging. For a moment, in a tiny bed in a dorm room, in a twin in a New York apartment, a king in Albany. Belonging. George’s graceful hands dragging along the page, the soft sound of paper, crinkle, messy hair and messy sheets and messy kisses. Dream, holding George in front of a hundred people, all packed together, all  _ knowing _ who he belonged to. 

The wheel started again. 

And now George was angry at him. It felt righteous and it felt like guilt. And he had Sapnap back, but it felt like fraud, and wasn’t that ironic. And why did he have Sapnap back? Because Sapnap needed him? George was right, that Sapnap had walked out, that Sapnap was Dream’s best friend, and not his. And Sapnap needed him, and he was the only person Dream had ever had. Until George.

Oh, Dream thought. Oh.

The problem was, how was he supposed to tell Sapnap what he felt? Why he was angry? Why he’d walked out? Two weeks after he’d understood and George still stayed a foot away from him at all times, refused offers to study with him in the library. He barely walked with Dream to classes, and Dream sat outside a building for fifteen minutes waiting for him, only to ask later and find that George had taken the longer route.

“I just don’t feel like walking on all that ice,” he said, shrugging and absently turning a page in his textbook. He sat at his desk, facing away from Dream and Sapnap. “I’ve got approximately ten textbooks and there’s no way I won’t slip and crack my head open.”

Red on the cobblestone. Dream winced at the mental image. “I’ll keep you steady.”

The air thickened. George turned another page. “Whatever you say, Dream.”

Dream rubbed his thumb across the poetry underneath his fingers.  _ Here is a place of disaffection. _

He’d kept the copy of the  _ Four Quartets _ after DuPre’s poetry class had ended. It felt like something he couldn’t give up. Something that was a part of him, irreplaceable. He carried it with him, sometimes. It felt stupid. It felt superstitious.

While George was in the bathroom, he put it on the corner of his desk, and left for the evening.

It took two days for George to return it. Stalking up to Dream after his class, sitting in a quiet courtyard under the bare branches of a maple tree, thrusting the book in his face. “You left this.”

“Oh,” Dream said, “wow. Can’t believe it. Oops.”

George rolled his eyes. “You can have it back. I have my own copy.”

“I don’t – ” Dream started and petered out. “I wanted – ”

George raised an eyebrow and something twisted alarmingly in Dream’s gut. “I was trying to, to… you know.”

“What do I know?”

Dream shrugged. “I just want you to. Stop being mad at me.” He scuffed the ground with his toe. “That’s all.”

“I’m perpetually mad at you.”

“I know.”

George studied him, his eyes narrowed and head tilted,  _ Four Quartets _ pushed into Dream’s chest. Dream shifted from foot to foot and didn’t take the book.

“Eret’s not like us.”

Dream frowned at the non sequitur. “What?”

“Eret. He’s different. You and I – we can pretend to be anything we want. He’s made his bed. He lies in it every hour of every day.” 

“I don’t see what this – ”

George sat next to him, voice quieter. “You put him in  _ danger _ when you let Sapnap in. Because Sapnap might be, might be… not  _ completely _ disgusted and horrified by us, but who  _ knows _ what he would think if he was, if he saw Heiress. If he met Heiress. You might not think anything of it, but it’s something Eret has to think about. All. The. Time.” George slapped the book into Dream’s chest with every word. “Do you understand?”

“You’re not mad about… Sapnap’s dad? Or him coming back?”

George made a face. “I’d like a better apology than the one Eret had to eke out of him. But no.”

“Oh,” Dream said. And then he blurted out: “I think he was jealous.”

George snorted. His face straightened. “Oh. You’re serious.”

Dream nodded. “I am. I thought about it the other day. Because we were… each other’s everything. My best friend. And now…” He looked down at the  _ Four Quartets  _ pressing into his chest. 

George took a deep breath. “It’s not entirely jealousy, you know.”

“I know,” Dream said. “Just consider it.”

George tilted the book so only the corner touched Dream’s sternum. “Take it. It’s yours.”

Slowly, Dream folded his fingers around the orange cover, the cracked spine. “Yeah?”

George’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “I made some annotations.”

It was that night, sitting in a little circle with the three of them on the floor, sharing a blunt, three shot glasses refilling over and over, soft laughter and hopeful smiles. Dream let his fingers brush up against George’s. Sapnap’s eyes were sad; George’s mouth twitched into frowns. But it felt right. It  _ was  _ right.

Over the next month, the snow and ice melted, and the daffodils began to shoot up in the flowerbeds, tiny violets poking through the brown of the grass. Dream kissed George once, when he’d come over for the evening and George was standing in front of his bookcase, cradling  _ the Thrush _ in his hands, his eyes and hands soft over the baked clay.

“Oh,” he said, putting it down. “Dream. I – ”

And a flurry, a rush, and Dream had him pressed up against the bed, hands iron on his waist, George answering in kind, biting Dream’s lip, pushing towards him, all sweet and wet and dizzying.

They pulled off from each other and George was panting, brown eyes glazed over, lips swollen. “Hi,” he said.

And Dream almost said it. Right then. How he felt. But the door was creaking open, and he was jumping back, and George straightened his shirt, and they looked presentable, and Sapnap strolled in. “Hey, Dream. How was your day?”

He backed away. He knew how he felt. It sat in his chest like a second heart, pulsing and raw, so utterly fragile. A baby bird that hadn’t grown its feathers yet. 

It mattered, how he said it. When he said it.

April slowly seeped into the ground and the birds sang, the flowers bloomed. The mountains burst with color and Mulbrang’s campus turned bright, students sitting on the grass, in the trees and the hammocks. Dream, George, and Sapnap took another hike into the forest, this time bringing pot instead of acid, and sat by the lake, rolling blunts and passing them around. The sky was bright and Dream was gentle with his high, the water cool against his feet, and he hadn’t realized he’d taken his shoes off. 

There they were, he noticed, his socks stuffed inside them, sat neatly next to George’s. Something ached in him. Two pairs of shoes, side by side. Maybe a pair of yellow rubber boots, for when it rained, and a pair of winter boots, for shoveling the snow off the sidewalk. 

“How are y’all feeling?” Sapnap asked, his voice quiet but clear.

George ran his hands through the water, patting the surface. “Glad I can feel.” He took a hit of the blunt and blew the smoke into the sky. “I can feel.”

“Okay,” Sapnap chuckled, “so we know George’s nervous system works. Dream?” 

“Never better,” Dream said, and splashed the water at Sapnap. “Feeling great. Good stuff, Sapnap.”

Sapnap brushed his hair dramatically from his eyes. “I try, you know. I try.”

A few days later, while Dream and Sapnap were lounging around in Sapnap’s room, George off at the library, an RA knocked on the door. “Sapnap Arktos?”

Sapnap stood and opened it. “Yes?”

The RA pointed down the hallway. “Phone call for you. From a… Bad Arktos?”

Sapnap brightened and looked back at Dream. “You wanna come with?”

The RA’s office was dim, windowless, papers tacked onto a bulletin board, and a phone lying off the hook on the desk. 

“He’s waiting on the other end,” the RA said, pointing. “I’ll give you guys space.” He closed the door behind him.

Sapnap picked up the phone and held it up, Dream bending so he could hear as well. “Bad!”

“ _ Hi, Sapnap! It’s so good to hear from you, little brother! How are you?” _

“I’m… I’m good, actually. Bad, Dream’s here!”

_ “Oh, hello Dream! How are you???” _

“I’m good,” Dream said. “I’m procrastinating on my homework.”

On the other end, Bad tsked.  _ “Don’t do that. You know, I get all these excuses from my kids all the time. My dog ate it, or my cat ate it. One time someone said that an alligator in their backyard ate it. Who has an alligator in their backyard?” _

“Don’t knock Florida,” Dream said. “I’m serious.”

Sapnap shoved him. “We all know your home is ugly, Dream, there’s no need to lie. Anyway, Bad, what’s up?”

_ “I just wanted to let you guys know that I’ll be in New York City this Saturday!!”  _ Bad said.  _ “If you guys have the time to come down and see me, maybe we can all get dinner together or something.” _

Sapnap’s face fell. “Bad, uh… you know Father… you know I…”

_ “Oh, it would be my treat,”  _ Bad scoffed.  _ “I get a pretty penny from the army, you know! They feel bad about blowing my arm off.” _

Bile rose in Dream’s esophagus.

_ “Anyway. April 15. Would you be interested?” _

Sapnap looked green. Dream shrugged, trying to keep his voice steady as he spoke. “Yeah, I guess so. Could George come as well? I feel like he’d like to see you.”

_ “Oh my gosh! That little muffinhead, I haven’t seen him in so long!” _ Bad’s joy was contagious.  _ “He might actually like to join me. There’s going to be a little rally by the Spring Mobilization and we’re going to march against the war. I’m at the front, me and a couple other guys who are marching under this, Vets against the war banner. It should just be a little group, but tell him about it if you want to come down!” _

A protest. “Oh,” Dream said. “Sure.”

It never felt good, talking to Bad about the war, and wondering if it had been one of his father’s weapons that had taken his arm. Wondering whose fire. Whose bomb. And to hear him talk about protests like they were fun, as if it wasn’t the most volatile situation in the continental United States. All that anger, all wrapped up in an enormous group of people reliant on consumerism, used to getting what they wanted? It was dangerous. And it was futile. What were the cries of hundreds, even thousands, to the vast swaths of money that funded the war? 

_ “Dream, you silly,”  _ Bad said.  _ “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”  _

Dream glanced at Sapnap, his jaw clenched, leaning on the desk with one arm. 

_ “Hello?” _

“We’ll be there, Bad,” Sapnap said, his voice tight. “We’ll come support you.”

“We will?” Dream hissed, covering the receiver, and Sapnap slapped his hand away. 

_ “Oh my gosh, that’s AWESOME!” _ The sounds of happiness on the other end.  _ “I’m so excited to see you three. Listen, I’m staying at the Best Western in Crown Heights – ” _

“In  _ Brooklyn?” _ Dream asked. “Are you sure that’s safe?”

_ “Dream, my family’s money is gone and I’m an elementary school teacher. Yes, the one in Brooklyn. You can join me if you want, but I’m assuming you’ll stay at the Ritz.” _

“I’m not  _ that  _ bad,” Dream muttered.

_ “Sapnap, are you still there?” _ Bad asked.

Sapnap struggled to get the words out. “Yeah, I’m here.”

_ “I wanted to talk to you about everything that happened.” _ Bad’s voice was soft, kind.  _ “Are you really doing alright?” _

Sapnap waved his hand at Dream, shooing him away. Dream gave him a pat on the back and scurried out, absently heading not for his dorm room, but Sapnap’s.

The war. Bad had always had that horrifically positive outlook about it all, what could have been worse, and all the wonderful things he’d gotten out of it. 

_ Our troops put their lives on the line for this country, _ Henry Gaumort said, squatting down and putting his hand on Dream’s shoulder.  _ We give them the tools they need to do that job –  _

_ But aren’t people dying? _

Dream had been ten, old enough to understand some of it, but not all of it. Ten years old, when he loved his father, when he was sure his father loved him back.

_ A carpenter needs a saw to cut wood. An artist needs a paintbrush to make a masterpiece. And a soldier needs a gun to fight.  _

_ But if they have to kill people – _

_ People die. That’s just the ugly truth. I don’t wanna see it any more than you do. But the people that our men are killing are  _ wrong _ , Dream. They want to hurt us. You understand? They’re bad, bad people, they’re  _ communists. _ They want to destroy the United States. _

_ Oh. _

_ Yeah. You don’t wanna see the United States destroyed, right? _

It was easy. Him and Sapnap, cheering Bad on as he signed up to go over for the second war, ready to serve his country. Bad was good with a gun, he was good with knives. Dream had seen him bulls-eye a tin can from a hundred yards. Bad was a hero.

The letter had changed everything. Bad returning, looking smaller, his right sleeve limp and empty. The next time Dream had been at Sapnap’s house when Bad was there, Sapnap didn’t warn him before he went to sleep. Dream had been woken up in the middle of the night to the screaming. Hoarse pleas for mercy. Begging God to let him die.

_ It’s just Bad, _ Sapnap said drowsily from the sleeping bag beside him.  _ Don’t wake him. If you wake him it gets worse. _

And Dream, that night, thought back to  _ A soldier needs a gun  _ and listened to Bad’s screams trail into sobs.

George was thrilled to go to a protest. “It’s been ages,” he said, bouncing happily in the backseat, having been shunted there after Sapnap called shotgun and pushed his way into the front seat. “How many people did he say were supposed to be there?”

“He said a few thousand,” Dream shrugged, slowly making his way down side streets, avoiding traffic. His fingers twitched against the steering wheel. “Starts in Central Park, and then they’re walking to the UN.”

He and Sapnap had decided to avoid the protest all together. He’d tried to explain it to an unimpressed George: thousands of people there. Photographers. Someone was going to see him. Someone was going to take a picture. And his father was going to see him. 

“Very nice,” George murmured. “Marches are good. Get the blood going. Are you sure you don’t want to join?”

Dream turned down 52nd. “I’m sure. I don’t need people taking my picture any more than they already do.”

“They don’t  _ that _ much,” Sapnap scowled. “Stop exaggerating.”

“Please, Sapnap, I’ve seen your first grade photoshoots,” George snarked. “You have no space to talk.”

“Just because you – ”

Dream pulled into  _ The Americana’s _ parking garage, the spiraling driveway slowly dipping lower and lower beneath the towering hotel. Sapnap slowly fell quiet, fiddling with his headband and absently adjusting the strap of his bag at his feet.

They parked and stretched as they emerged, Dream yawning. “Okay. George, let’s check in and then get you where you need to be and then I am going to go  _ sleep. _ I’m so tired, I might just sleep until dinner, honestly.”

The concierge gave them their keys, to rooms 732 and 734, and Dream pocketed all of them as George led the way out, heading north towards Central Park. People were milling around, talking and holding signs. A lot of people, Dream noticed as they got further and further towards Central Park, pushing their way through giant groups of people, the crowds dense, loud, and angry.

“What the fuck,” Sapnap said nervously. “What the fuck.”

“Okay, he said the 6th Avenue to Central Park.” The wonder in George’s voice, the shocked joy. “We’re at the Central Park 6th avenue entrance.”

Throngs, entire families, maybe schools. Thousands upon thousands of people, mostly Dream’s age, of every race, every gender. People in wheelchairs, people with enormous signs, people looking confused, and people with anger etched in their faces. Above it all: “ _ SAPNAP! DREAM! GEORGE!” _

Dream turned, trying to see Bad over the crowd and only saw an arm waving wildly, barely clearing the general heads. He grabbed George – an excuse, but a good one – and nodded to where Bad was standing, over by the gate.

They pushed through at least a hundred solid people to get to him, buffeted from side to side and Bad appeared through a gap in the crowd, his grinning face a beacon of light. He was in army greens, the people milling around him giving him space, their eyes fixating on where his shirt sleeve was cut off and pinned back to the shoulder. 

Sapnap shoved his way past Dream and almost knocked Bad down with the force of his hug, Bad’s arm wrapping around his back as they staggered into a bunch of people. When they let go, his face was elated, both of them gripping each other’s shoulders, Sapnap’s hands shaking with excitement. They turned and Dream caught a glimpse of Sapnap’s face, his eyes, brimming with tears, his mouth unsure whether to smile or not.

George’s hand turned in his, just for a second, and Dream moved his hand up to grip George’s bicep and pull him forward, towards Bad and Sapnap.

“Dream!” Bad said, and lunged in for a hug. Bad had always given good hugs, and that didn’t change even after he lost, arguably, half of what made his hugs so great. It was a hug that made Dream want to sink into it and never leave.

Eventually, he pulled away and Bad moved over to greet George. 

“It’s so good to see you guys,” he said over George’s shoulder. “Thank you so much for coming down!”

“I missed you, Bad,” Sapnap said, folding his arms and surreptitiously wiping his cheeks. Bad broke away from George’s hug to grin at him

“Awww, Sappy. I missed you too.”

Sapnap rolled his eyes and pushed Bad away. “Not that much. I missed you a little bit. Not too much.”

“Sapnap, you’re never too young or too old to express your love for someone,” Bad said, his eyes wide and serious behind his huge glasses. “I tell my students that the most important thing you can do for someone is tell them you love them.” 

Dream was suddenly hugely aware of George standing next to him, hands in his pockets and shirt collar unbuttoned, skin alabaster under the clouds.

“Ew,” Sapnap said. “Gross. You’re an army vet, act like it.”

“Oh,” Bad grinned, pointing to his shoulder stump, “I’m actually not that  _ army _ at all.”

There was a collective groan and Sapnap turned away. “You’re not my brother any more. I disown you.”

“You can’t disown me, I’m your brother!”

“I can and I will.”

Shouts. People started moving around them. A point in the distance, smoke rising into the blue sky. Dream’s eyes fixed on it. “What’s going on?”

Bad squinted. “I’m not sure.” He clapped his hands together. “George and I will go check it out. If you guys want to go somewhere else, you’re welcome to. Unless George wants company?” He glanced at George, who tilted his head.

“What do you mean?” Dream asked.

Bad’s mouth skewed. “Well, it’s only vets in the front. I mean, he can walk right behind me but I don’t want him to be alone.” 

George shrugged. “I’m fine with that.”

Eret’s voice, in Dream’s head:  _ What’s the number one rule? _

He looked over at George, wind-brushed, jaw set, eyes fiery. “I’m not,” Dream’s mouth blurted. 

George’s head turned slowly, his jaw dropping. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Around them, the growing crowd, moving and blurring. And Dream and George, George glaring up at Dream, and Dream nervously settling his feet into the ground. Unmoving.

“I’m going to march with you,” he said. 

“Oh, yeah? All that talk, about your picture in the paper, and how maybe someone’s going to know you because of those weird photoshoots your family does? And now you’re marching?”

Dream took a deep breath. “It’s rule number one, right?”

George raised an eyebrow. “Rule number one?”

“As in – ” Dream stammered. “Eret’s rule. He – he mentioned – you don’t seem to have a very good track record with them.”  _ Keeping yourself safe, _ he wanted to say, but didn’t.

George considered him for a moment, and then his eyes began to smile. “Okay. Rule number one.”

Sapnap made his way out of the crowd, promising to meet them at the hotel that evening. Dream and George walked with Bad as he excused his way through the milling groups of people around them.

“Sorry, excuse me. Excuse me!” 

“Thank you for your service,” a woman said, and Bad sent her a smile, raised his hand to greet a man who saluted him.

Another man, his back to them, directly in their path. “Excuse me!” Bad called, his award-winning smile spread across his face. “Gotta get through, I’m sorry!”

The man turned, scanned Bad up and down, a sneer curling his lips. He very slowly leaned forward, and spat a great glob between Bad’s feet.

Bad’s smile died, his eyes dropped, and Dream stepped forward, folding his arms. “That was fucking rude.”

“Fucking  _ dog,” _ the man spat. “War dog. How many people did you kill?”

His back unnaturally straight, neck stiff, Bad said as if reciting from a speech, “Our primary objective was survival. My goal was to keep  _ my _ men, American men, alive.”

Dream felt George put his arm around Bad’s shoulders. “I think you’re in the wrong place to spit at the feet of a veteran,” he said, and tugged Bad away. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“We just wanted to survive,” Bad mumbled, as Dream and George guided him through the crowd. “Some of us – Oh, God.”

His voice caught, and Dream looked up.

A bonfire, chanting and shouting, yelling, the crackling of smoke. Men holding aloft little cards, fire creeping up the edges, crisping away into dust. One man dipped his into the edge of the flames, and as it caught on fire, he lifted it into the sky. Someone hollered, “ _ FUCK, NO! WE WON’T GO!”  _ and the chant caught in the crowd, and soon the roar went up, over and over.  _ FUCK, NO! WE WON’T GO! FUCK, NO! WE WON’T GO! _

“ _ FUCK THE DRAFT!” _ someone screamed.

Bad stared at the men despairingly. “They’re all going in,” he said. “They’re all going in.”

Draft cards tossed onto the bonfire as some people in the crowd cheered, booed. Many held two fingers aloft, spread in a V. One man held up the peace sign aloft, and in the other, clenched at his waist, his draft card, whole and not burned.

“They’ll be arrested, and they’ll have a criminal record, and then they’ll go into the army,” Bad murmured. “I met the draft dodgers. I met a lot of them.”

Dream glanced over at him, dread pooling in his stomach. 

Bad shook his head. “They didn’t tend to last very long.”

Dream looked back at two men, side by side, lofting their burning cards into the air. How much time did they have left? How long would it take?

A wail pierced through the shouting and the crowd flinched, an enormous black plated paddy wagon driving slowly through the protestors, siren loud enough to burst Dream’s eardrums. Men and women, moving aside, some running, some banging on the side, some standing in the way and refusing to move. 

And then the police were swarming. Men standing with the remnants of their draft cards clutched proudly in their hands were dragged to the back of the paddy wagon, and there was shouting and yelling, and Dream grabbed ahold of George’s sleeve as Bad pulled them away.

God, was this what the rest of the day was going to look like? People resisted arrest, resisting the draft? Shouting in the face of the police, initiating conflict? Hands were fisted. Someone was about to get punched. He was sure of it.

Dream looked over his shoulder, the men lined up, hands behind their backs in handcuffs, chins lifted as the crowd around them swelled with peace signs, two fingers lifted in the iconic V. Thought about the money that had gone into keeping him out of the war.

_ A soldier needs a gun. _ Dream shook his head. The gun needed the soldier. 

“Am I a draft dodger?” he asked, and George squeezed his arm so tight it hurt. “Ow!”

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” he snapped. “Don’t say that here.”

“Language,” Bad said absently, guiding them down the street, through the people facing towards the scene.

“And no,” George added. He glanced over his shoulder, jaw set and eyes filled with an unknowable emotion as the men disappeared into the paddy wagon. “You’re not. Not like they are.”

Bad eventually split off from them on the east side of Central Park, waving to someone Dream couldn’t see. “I’ll meet you back at the hotel,” he called. “Bye!”

“What now?” Dream asked.

George shrugged. “We wait here,” he said. “Talk about our disparate views on the war. Make friends.”

Dream caught movement out of the corner of his eye, one he had long been trained to recognize. He covered his face as the faint click of a camera sounded. 

“Oh, shit,” George said. “Want to move?”

Dream nodded. “Please.”

They disappeared into the crowd together and found themselves squished between two groups of friends, all chattering loudly, barely enough space to breathe. Dream stretched his neck and pulled the band out of his hair, let it fall over his shoulders. His father had never approved of men with long hair but had permitted his son to grow it out, as long as he “didn’t look like one of those goddamn hippies.” In pictures, on TV, Dream’s hair was pulled back so tightly it was painful. Once, he’d worn a wig. 

He ran a hand through his hair and shook it out, caught George’s eyes on him, flickering up and down. “What?”

George didn’t say anything, just shook his head and looked away. “Alexander.”

Dream’s breath caught, the shiver in his bones, the heat in his blood and his throat, the full-bodied ripple that shuddered through him every time George called him Alexander. 

“Hephaestion.”

“Shut up,” George said, looking away, his eyes flittering across the people around them. Dream’s gaze landed on the curve of his neck.

“You started it.”

It made George smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes, and something lifted in Dream.

And then the crowd began moving around them, voices growing to a roar like the key in a wind-up toy slowly twisting, and as one vast continent of people they began to move south. Cheers went up towards the front, shouts, and a chant began. George was shouting with it, and as Dream focused in on the noise, he finally made out the words. 

_ 1, 2, 3, 4! WE DON’T WANT YOUR FUCKING WAR! 1, 2, 3, 4! WE DON’T WANT YOUR FUCKING WAR! _

And from the back, another chant, clashing with the first, rising up the ranks of the vast spread of marchers across the closed-off streets.  _ PEACE NOW!  _ Two beats.  _ PEACE NOW! _

Dream stayed silent and watched his feet move across the pavement, step by step. The chants echoed along the city streets, thundering through the buildings and the ground and the air. He looked behind them, and did not see an end to the sea of people. In front of them, there seemed no beginning.

It was unnerving. Thousands, potentially tens of thousands of angry people. Fists in the air and peace signs intermingled, shouts and screams, dark red rage filling the air. Police lined the streets, hands at their waists. Dream’s eyes scanned them as he passed, unconsciously reaching for George before pulling back. 

He felt trembly, his hands cold in the wet air. The sky slowly darkened as the march dragged on, sluggish, humidity growing, the city’s stink seeping into the fog gathering far down the streets. Now, when Dream looked, he could barely see the marchers two blocks away. He turned forward again. 

_ PEACE NOW! PEACE NOW! _

George stumbled and his hand flashed out to grab Dream’s arm as he righted himself. 

“You okay?” Dream asked, his fingers lingering over George’s skin. He was frowning, his face screwed up in frustration, but when he spoke, his voice was light.

“Yeah, I’m alright. Just – tripped.”

Dream nodded as he let go, his gait steady enough. “Okay. As long as you’re sure.”

Something sharp in George’s voice. “I’m  _ fine, _ Dream. Don’t worry about me.”

They walked for an hour. It was only 24 short blocks to the United Nations headquarters, but the march felt interminable. Chants varied. Some focused on Johnson. Some defended the troops in Vietnam, some the civilians. Some called for politicians to leave office, politicians Dream knew. And had met. And had dinner with. 

It would have been laughable if it wasn’t so sad. All the hope and righteous fury for the sanctity of human life, and for what? To be a passing glance in an article in tomorrow’s newspaper? To gain the attention, for a split second, of people who in one motion could obliterate the very street they were standing on?

And then, the name Dream had been expecting to hear.

_ HEY, HEY! HO, HO!  _ _  
_ _ HENRY GAUMORT HAS GOT TO GO! _

_ HEY, HEY! HO, HO! _ _  
_ _ HENRY GAUMORT HAS GOT TO GO! _

George eyes, wide and startled, looking over at Dream. He obviously hadn’t been expecting to hear the name, but Dream knew. Dream had seen the articles in the newspapers, the essays, had seen the pile of letters burning in the fireplace. Murderer, monster, war profiteer. 

He dipped his head and his hair fell in front of his face. Maybe nobody would recognize him. He was sure they were all seeing his father’s face in their minds. Maybe somebody was thinking of the face most closely connected, the face that appeared immediately underneath Henry Gaumort’s in most photos. Dream’s gaunt face stared back at him in his mind’s eye from the pages of a magazine.

_ It’s a good picture of our family, don’t you think?  _ his father asked, coming up behind him and looking at the two-page spread. His mother and Dream’s younger siblings on the right page, Dream and his father on the left. 

Dream remembered the day they’d sat for the picture. His whole family was in Houston for it, and the night before had been the first time Dream had ever seen Sapnap in person. Remembered the sinking feeling in his chest as the realization hit him, the second they saw each other for the first time in the airport, Sapnap holding up a little sign like a chauffeur.  _ DREAM  _ scrawled across it. The way his heart beat faster. How, Sapnap crushed in his arms in a tight hug, he knew exactly what it all meant. Kissing him that night. Sapnap turning him down.

The next day, Dream’s hair slicked back and his glasses discarded, hungover and powdered by the makeup crew, his picture taken for TIME magazine. 

_ HEY, HEY! HO, HO! _ _  
_ _ HENRY GAUMORT HAS GOT TO GO! _

Somewhere along the way, it had started to drizzle, but somehow the rain only seemed to fuel the marchers. The sound of it against the buildings and pavement added a backdrop to the chants and songs, and as the rain began to pour harder, the volume of the march rose. They stood in front of the United Nations headquarters, completely soaked through, Dream’s hair plastered to his scalp. He swept it back and removed his glasses, covered in water droplets and and completely useless.

“Hey, don’t I recognize you?”

Dream looked to his right, where the voice had come from, squinting without his glasses. On a good day, his vision was blurry, but the rain and dark sky made everything gray. “Uh, maybe?” he asked, trying in vain to wipe his glasses on his dripping shirt. “What’s your name?”

The guy didn’t answer. “I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before. Have you ever been on television?”

Dream’s pulse skyrocketed and he shoved his glasses back on, his sight blurred in spots where there were still dots of water. “Not really, no.”

“Huh,” the guy said. “Weird.”

Dream tilted his head to look at George, whose eyes were narrowed, flicking between the two of them. “Maybe we should go somewhere else.”

George gestured around them, at the protestors packed like sardines in the street, even more rounding the corner and coming down the block, barely able to see the front step of the UN. “Where else would we go?”

Dream glanced over at the guy who’d almost recognized them. “We could find an empty spot.”

“It’s gonna be farther back, though. Bad said Dr. King was speaking today, and I  _ really  _ want to hear – ”

“ _ George,” _ Dream pleaded, wincing inwardly at the anger in his voice. 

“ _ Dream,” _ George snarked back, and Dream’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach as the man next to them turned again.

“Did you just say – did you just say  _ Dream?” _

“No,” Dream said quickly. “He was – ”

“Let him speak for himself,” the guy said, but his eyes were laser-focused on Dream.

“Okay, I think you’re right, let’s – ” George started, and the guy cut him off.

“Dream Gaumort, right?”

The rain spattered Dream’s glasses, seeped through his shirt into his skin and bones. He felt his hands go shaky, like they always did when he was nervous.

Fuck.  _ Fuck. _ This was why he didn’t want to come. Because the focus on his family had narrowed so sharply in the past few years, as his father’s company had gained power, money, influence. It had also garnered him infamy. And the op-ed on his father in the  _ Washington Post _ that had launched him into the public eye had included a little piece on Dream, a picture of him, straight-backed and stiff, awkward in front of a camera. None of his other siblings were mentioned. His mother was barely a footnote. 

The expectation hung over him. Everyone knew what he was destined for.

“Yes,” Dream said. “That’s me.”

The guy stepped closer. “ _ Fuck _ you.”

“Sorry I’m my father’s son.” It was almost rote, this conversation. Almost boring. Except for the promise of fury standing in front of him, the spit in his face, or at his feet. 

“Like fuck you are.”

“I think maybe we should be going,” George said, and the guy rounded on him.

“And you  _ stand _ with this fucker? This war criminal? He should be in jail.”

“Hey – ” Dream said, putting an arm out in front of George, who cut him off almost immediately. 

“He’s  _ eighteen.  _ Hardly a war criminal.”

“Old enough for me.” The other man was tall, about as tall as Dream, and he towered over George, moving in close to both of them. 

“I’m  _ here, _ aren’t I?” he asked, now practically face-to-face with the man. “I didn’t have to be here.” He shifted his weight so he was in front of George, just enough for it to not be noticeable.

“Yeah, but  _ why,  _ huh? Here to find out what the people  _ actually _ fighting for life are doing – ”

“Vietnam soldiers are giving their  _ lives  _ for  _ YOUR  _ freedom – ”

“ _ MY  _ freedom, huh? You think anyone’s fighting for the little guy? Those soldiers are fighting  _ your _ fight, Dream Gaumort.”

“Dream – ”

“My father is the only reason those soldiers stand a  _ chance  _ in hell – ”

“ _ Dream –  _ ”

“Your father is getting them  _ killed!” _

“ _ Dream!” _

And because Dream was looking at George, always looking, he saw as he started to sway, and fall, and collapse, and he didn’t feel himself moving but suddenly his hands were slick and wet and numb on George’s shoulders, holding him up, as George rocked unsteadily on his feet. “George! Are you okay?”

“I – ” George’s eyes were unfocused, his grip on Dream’s arm shockingly tight, painful to a point of bruising. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? That was – that was  _ really _ weird.” He levied an attempt at humor. “Weird even for you.”

George didn’t bite. “I’m fine, yeah.”

“Oh,” the man said, the one Dream had almost immediately forgotten about. He was staring at them with an ugly smirk on his face. “I see how it is.”

Dream blanched. “It’s not – ”

But the guy was melting into the crowd, and Dream was holding up George, and wasn’t going to let go for the world.

“You can let go now,” George said.

Dream carefully released him, and George stood steady. “Just let me know if you need anything.”

“Sure.”

“Do you want to go back to the Americana?”

“I’ve stood and walked in the rain for two hours,” George snapped icily. “I just had to witness that little cat fight between you and a fucking stranger. I’m not missing King’s speech just because  _ you _ can’t stand the peace movement.”

“It’s not – ”

“You can go back, if you want.”

“I don’t want,” Dream blurted out. “To – to go back. I want to stay here.”

George was facing the UN building, his eyes climbing to the top floor, encased in fog. “Why?”

_ You, _ Dream’s brain said. Out loud, he said nothing.

“Yeah,” George said. “Whatever you want, Dream.”

It took another thirty minutes for Dr. King to take the stage in front of the United Nations, and Dream could barely see his tiny figure walk onto the raised platform, jostled by everyone around him, the rain still pouring down, the sky growing darker and darker as the evening began to crawl into the clouds.

_ “I come to participate in this significant demonstration today because my conscience leaves me no other choice. I join you in this mobilization because I cannot be a silent onlooker while evil rages. I am here because I agree with Dante, that:  _ _ "The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in a period of moral crisis, maintain their neutrality." _ _ In these days of emotional tension, when the problems of the world are gigantic in extent and chaotic in detail, there is no greater need than for sober thinking, mature judgment, and creative dissent.” _

The hottest places in hell. But he wasn’t neutral. He was – he was here. 

Was he, though? Dream had always, instinctively, taken his father’s side. Of course he would. It was his father. Sapnap’s words, the night he’d appeared, cold and devastated, at Eret’s apartment:  _ He doesn’ want you home fer Christmas, he doesn’ care about you enough to actually love you, he jus’ wants you all as his li’l puppets –  _

A roar from somewhere off to the right. It swept through the crowd, the rain beating down onto the wall of sound. 

_ “The physical tolls of this bloody, costly and futile war literally stagger the imagination. We see the nightmare in our living rooms in all their tragic dimensions on television screens. We see the rice fields of a small Asian country trampled at will and burned at whim, We see grief-stricken mothers with crying babies clutched in their arms as they watch their little huts burst into flames; we see fields and valleys of battle painted with mankind's blood; and the ultimate horror is that we see little children mutilated and incinerated with napalm. _

_ “Even closer to us in our own neighborhoods and in our own families we learn of American youth destroyed and maimed in savage combat. American mothers and fathers are given coffins and medals, crippled sons, and pious praise. And yet, many of them are bold enough to declare their sacrifice has no meaning. They have suffered the ultimate loss and from it feel a sense of no gain. There is a quiet terror in the home of every draft-eligible boy as families contemplate possible death that waits in jungle depths for our sons and husbands.” _

And a jolt in Dream’s stomach. How he was saved from the draft because of who his father had paid off. How Bad had enlisted, not been drafted, because he knew it was the right thing to do. How Sapnap had been spared, like Dream, because of money.

And how that money was no longer there.

_ “One of the great Buddhist leaders of Vietnam wrote these words:  _ _ "Each day the war goes on the hatred increases in the hearts of the Vietnamese and in the hearts of those of humanitarian instincts. The Americans are forcing even their friends into becoming their enemies. It is curious the Americans, who calculate so carefully on the possibility of military victory, do not realize that in the process they are incurring deep psychological and political defeat. The image of America will never again be the image of revolution, freedom and democracy, but the image of violence and militarism.” _ _ " _

The memory of George in the very, very early morning of January first, bags under his eyes and floppy hair, his breath stale in the dry air of the car, and so, so beautiful and vibrant. His voice, angry and raw and intensely sad:  _ Did they talk about strategies? New, advanced weaponry meant to make a man bleed as much as possible? Or were they talking about what had already happened? How many men they’ve already gotten killed? How many women? How many children? _

King continued, and Dream stared at the huge building behind him, the dark windows spattered with rain.  _ “But honesty impels me to admit that our power has often made us arrogant. We feel that our money can do anything. We arrogantly feel that we have everything to teach other nations and nothing to learn from them. We often arrogantly feel that we have some divine, messianic mission to police the whole world. We are arrogant, as Senator Fullbright has said, to think ourselves  _ _ "God's avenging angels." _ _ We are arrogant in not allowing young nations to go through the same growing pains, turbulence and revolution that characterized our history.” _

Why would you let them go through that if you already knew how to propel them into the future? The United States was the most developed country in the world, and for good reason. They’d already fought and died for their freedom against oppressive regimes and now it was their goodwill and generosity that stopped other countries from having to do the same.

George stumbled into him again, and Dream grabbed his arm. “Seriously. Did someone actually hurt you?”

“Shh.”

_ “Wisdom born of experience should tell us that war is obsolete. There may have been a time when war served as a negative good preventing the spread and growth of an evil force, but the destructive power of modern weapons eliminates even the possibility that war may serve as a negative good. If we assume that life is worth living and that man has a right to survive, then we must find an alternative to war.” _

An alternative to war. Dream almost scoffed. What alternative was there? Peace talks? Negotiations that lasted a hundred days and produced nothing? Every revolution began and ended with blood spilled on the ground. Sacrifice was necessary for the greater good.

In his memory, Bad’s nightmarish, blood-curdling screams. 

_“On December 19th, Washington officially asked U Thant to take whatever steps were necessary for a cease fire. U Thant responded, "Stop the bombing." Why have we not yet done it? We asked for an answer and were given it. Let us demand insistently that our government honor its word. If Washington did not hear U Thant, let us say it loudly and often enough so that the deaf can hear it —_ _”_

And as one, the crowd, tens of thousands of people: “ **_STOP THE BOMBING._ ** _ ” _

_ “Let us save our national honor — ”  _

_ “ _ **_STOP THE BOMBING._ ** _ ” _

_ “Let us save American lives and Vietnamese lives — ” _

_ “ _ **_STOP THE BOMBING._ ** _ ” _

_ “Let us take a single instantaneous step to the peace table — ”  _

_ “ _ **_STOP THE BOMBING._ ** _ ” _

_ “Let us put an honorable peace on the agenda before another day passes — ”  _

_ “ _ **_STOP THE BOMBING._ ** _ ” _

_ Let us be able to face the world with a concrete deed of genuine peace — ”  _

_ “ _ **_STOP THE BOMBING._ ** _ ” _

_ “Let our voices ring out across the land to say the American people are not vainglorious conquerors — ”  _

_ “ _ **_STOP THE BOMBING._ ** _ ” _

Guilt, powerful and all-consuming, as Dream sat cross-legged beside George, sleeping quietly in the hotel bed.

After the speeches, and the cheering, and the chants, it was nighttime, and slowly the crowd began to disperse. George, although he was trying to hide it, was screwing up his face in agony, and Dream helped him limp the few blocks back to the hotel, George leaning heavily on him, eyelids fluttering in fatigue. He’d offered to call a cab; George refused. 

As soon as they’d gotten back to the hotel, freezing and shivering, cold and wet to the bone, Dream had cranked the shower to the hottest setting and they’d stripped out of their clinging clothes and stepped under the hot water together. George had been holding on to the wall the whole time, barely using his other hand. Dream washed his hair for him, fingers thick with foam and gentle on his scalp, George’s head tilted back and his mouth dropped open, relaxed and happy. 

They washed each other, too, barely speaking, skin pinking from the heat. But even the steam from the scalding water was better than the freezing April rain. George’s hands firm on Dream, soap bar gliding over his freckled shoulders and arms, dipping down the V at his hips, inner calves and thighs and George carefully sitting back on his haunches. His soft voice.  _ “Lift.” _ Hands running over his ankles and heels, the sloping arch of his feet.

And Dream’s turn, hands big on the sides of George’s face and neck. His smooth collarbone, underneath his thin biceps, the cream of his skin and his stomach, the dip in his lower back. Kneeling in front of him, looking up, admiring how beautiful he was, the world stilled and warm and small, all centered in on the both of them. 

And standing outside of the shower, the steam curling in the bright lights of the bathroom, toweling each other off with the fluffy towels in the cabinets. George wrapped in white, dark hair a shock against it, Dream pressing him up against the sink and their lips seeking each other.

They sat on the bed in nothing but fresh underwear, the radiator near the window on high, Dream absently fitting his hands in George and playing with his fingers. George stared out the window. He yawned.

“Sleepy?” Dream murmured, thumb skimming back and forth across his wrist.

George nodded, his body drooping, curving towards Dream’s. “Aren’t we… aren’t we meeting Bad?” 

Dream shrugged and wrapped an arm around him, running a hand through his hair. “It’s alright if we have a late dinner. If you need to take a nap I’ll wake you up in half an hour.”

George was leaning on Dream, eyes shut. Dream prodded him carefully. “George?”

Now George was snuggled underneath the covers, twenty-five minutes later, snoring softly, and Dream’s brain was running a million miles an hour. George’s stumbling, collapsing. The way he’d barely complained about leaning on Dream. Someone, somehow, must have hurt him without Dream knowing. Maybe it was the guy he’d almost fought with? How would he have gotten to George? Dream was standing in front of him the whole time. 

His fists clenched in the covers as he studied George’s sleeping face. His long, dark eyelashes fanned out across his cheekbones, his damp hair and the wet spots on the pillow underneath it. The curve of his shoulder as it disappeared underneath the covers.

Dream’s hand reached out, his fingers fluttering down George’s shoulder, all soft skin and beauty. Something was wrong. 

A prickling behind his eyes. 

George awoke to the soft touch, his eyelashes fluttering, shifting and mumbling a little bit as he burrowed further under the covers. “Mmm? Dream?”

“George,” Dream said quietly. “It’s been about thirty minutes.”

“Mm-mm.” George shook his head and buried his face into the covers. “Thirty more minutes.”

Dream laughed, watery and shaky. “No, the thirty minutes is done.” His voice wavered.

George peered up at him, squinty, from the pillow. “You… you okay?”

Dream shook his head. His lip trembled as he tried to keep the tears in. “I… I was worried about you.”

“You didn’... didn’t have to be.”

Dream, crying, said, “I love you.”

“Mmm,” George responded. A hand emerged from underneath the covers, blindly searching for Dream’s.

Dream took it, George’s fingers so small and slim in his own. They guided his hand to George’s chest, over his left breast, his heartbeat strong and steady under Dream’s fingertips.

“Feel that?” George asked. “That’s me.”

Dream flattened his hand over George’s chest. Under his palm,  _ ba-dum. ba-dum. ba-dum. _

“That’s me.”

_ At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless; _

_ Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is, _

_ But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity, _

_ Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards, _

_ Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point, _

_ There would be no dance, and there is only the dance. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before this chapter I knew jack shit about SEC investigations. Now I know slightly more about them. If YOU guys want to learn about the SEC, I read [this article](https://www.complianceweek.com/the-abcs-of-sec-probes-20-questions-and-answers/7358.article#:~:text=The%20length%20of%20an%20SEC,of%20the%20party%20being%20investigated.) on the subway. Also shout out to Aenqa for summing it up a little for me when they read the first draft and were like "ok... so this is how SEC investigations ACTUALLY work."
> 
> The Americana was the name of the Sheraton in Times Square before it became the Sheraton in Times Square. U know Dream shelled out for his bf ;)
> 
> Anyway, April 15, 1967 was a real, PEACEFUL protest that occurred in New York City and San Francisco, as well as many other cities that many of sources seem reluctant to name? Oh well. 20 veterans DID march at the front, men burned their draft cards in Central Park and it was a cloudy day that ended in rain during an amazing MLK Jr speech in front of the UN. I included excerpts but I HIGHLY recommend [reading the full speech.](https://www.crmvet.org/docs/mlkviet2.htm) I especially loved inserting Dream’s line about how the protests wouldn’t be remembered because [THIS](https://www.nytimes.com/2017/04/14/opinion/my-first-antiwar-protest.html) NYT article from 2017 shows that it certainly left a longstanding legacy. 
> 
> [Here are some really cool pictures](https://hrmediaarchive.estuarypress.com/stop-the-draft-week-december-1967/#) from December 1967 of anti-draft protests.
> 
> I really didn’t include that much history otherwise in this chapter but it was very plot heavy and character driven. I hope you liked it! New update days will be Mondays, and I will be taking an extra week between Burnt Norton and East Coker to get my shit together and start posting weekly again.
> 
> Thank you so much. I appreciate you all so much. You know the drill - my tumblr is @princedemeter and if you liked it, please talk to me there or leave a comment or kudos here! All my love. Mwah :3


	10. EAST COKER: in my end is my beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Pushing and shoving. George stumbled, desperate to keep his footing. The marshals surrounding the Pentagon, just inside the flimsy rope barrier, were shouting senselessly as the crowd surged. A hoarse bellow of victory, and the flood was cut off at the throat._
> 
> _“What happened?” Tubbo asked, jumping to try to see over the heads of the crowd as they pushed him towards Dream and George._
> 
> _“One of ‘em got through!” Tommy hollered, punching the air. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “PEACE NOW!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Welcome and welcome back! This is the start of part 2 of this story, East Coker. I'm so excited for the PLOT in this section and I hope you all are too.
> 
> Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to everyone who has read this and appreciated it and sent me messages and asks! Thank you to dnffanficrecs for reccing this YESTERDAY, which turned out to be crazy well timed! Thank you to my betas, Light, Jules, and Aenqa for your encouragement and kindness and fucking ENORMOUS brains. MWAH!
> 
> **_EXTREMELY IMPORTANT CONTENT WARNINGS:_ Police brutality, graphic descriptions of tear gas, including descriptions of choking and burning sensations,** blood, harm to eyes, bodily numbness. Suggested/implied sexual harassment, weed usage, mentions of war, mentions of acid and description of a person on acid (not explicitly stated). This chapter is rough. Please be careful. 
> 
> enjoy <3

George looked up at the steely bright October sky spanning over Arlington, Virginia. In the distance on one side, rolling hills spilled over the skyline, the Potomac a line of frigid autumn water beneath the bridge. On his other side, the foreboding five-sided building they planned to storm. 

The Pentagon was surrounded by men in brown uniforms and white helmets, stars displayed brazenly on their shoulders, rifles facing outwards towards the crowd and bayonets at the ready. They stood behind a rope barricade, shifting with restless energy, eyes flickering over the enormous crowd swelling into the once-empty parking lot. Protestors swarmed around them, shouting, two fingers in the air, or flowers extended, blossoms slightly wilted. For a short period of time, the barrel of a gun became a vase. 

Tubbo, his fists clenched around wilting dandelions, had almost wandered off to give them out. He might have succeeded and gotten lost in the crowd had it not been for Dream’s watchful eye, pulling him back to the group with a hand on his arm. At a pointed look from Wilbur, Dream accompanied him as he meandered through the parking lot, offering flowers to protesters and military alike. He looked irate at the overprotection, his shoulders hunched in irritation.

Tommy was complaining loudly to Wilbur as George tuned back into their conversation. “Why  _ does _ he have to be here?” 

“Because he’s an arse, Tommy, an arse who thinks that his presence is  _ necessary _ .” Wilbur was watching Dream and Tubbo with a sour twist to his mouth. He took a drag from his joint. “Why  _ did  _ you bring him, George?”

George rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t  _ my _ decision. I told him you and I were coming down to Washington – ”

“ _ Arlington – ” _ Wilbur corrected.

“Same fucking difference – and he just told me he was coming too. I didn’t think he  _ loved  _ the last protest he went to, we fucking got into an argument with someone.”

“Not the one in April?”

“Yes, the one in April,” George sighed. Wilbur offered him the joint, and he took it. “It was unbelievable, actually, Wil, I can’t believe I never told you…”

It  _ had  _ been unbelievable. He hadn’t noticed the numbness creeping up his fingers until he lifted his arm into the air to form a peace sign and his  _ hand hadn’t responded. _ The sharp tickling all the way up his arm, and then in his leg as well, until suddenly Dream was about to get into a fight and George, barely living in his body anymore, couldn’t feel anything on his left side, only just able to gasp out Dream’s name before he collapsed.

He was lucky. Dream’s hand on his right shoulder was grounding, cementing him in reality. Yet knowing Dream was touching his left shoulder, seeing it with his eyes and being  _ completely unable to feel it  _ was a moment that hadn’t left him, even in the six months since the protest. That particular spell of numbness stayed with him for two weeks, the longest he had ever felt it, until one day he woke up and instead of the tingling he was used to, he was able to faintly feel the covers underneath his fingertips. 

Terrifyingly, he had felt completely fine ever since.

He woke up every morning with a jolt, the slow spread of fear in his throat dripping down his esophagus. Every morning he flexed his fingers and toes, bent his elbows and knees, the worry that one day he would wake up unable to  _ feel _ constant in the back of his mind. He touched everything he could: the walls, desks, rubbed the pages of books between his fingers, held his toothbrush in an iron grip. 

The pot was nice, at this point. Relaxation in his shoulders, the slow easing of his thoughts, the ground firm under him. The sensitivity of his skin, cotton brushing against the fine hairs of his arms as the world touched him for once.

_ The chill ascends from feet to knees _ _   
_ _ The fever sings in mental wires. _

“Gimme that,” Tommy said, snatching the joint out of George’s hand. “Are they really performing an exorcism today? I heard there was witches here.”

“They might try to lift the fucking Pentagon three hundred feet in the air – ”

“They actually only got a permit for ten feet – ” George interjected.

“– But I’m not joining. And you aren’t either.” Wilbur plucked the joint out of Tommy’s mouth before he had the chance to inhale. Tommy scowled.

“You’re not my dad.”

“Whose apartment are you and Tubbo living in again?”

“Still not my dad.”

“ _ Rent free?” _

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Just because you’re a pushover doesn’t mean no one else is. We could find someone who’d take us in.”

“Whoever said I was a pushover?”

George sighed. If he’d known that Wilbur was going to bring the nightmare duo with him, he wouldn’t have agreed to meet him in Arlington. Tommy and Tubbo were demonic hellspawn and a thorn in George’s side since he’d met them two years ago around the time he’d met Wilbur, as a freshman at Mulbrang. “My vassals,” he’d said in description, proudly presenting two acne-ridden fourteen-year-olds to George, who squinted at him suspiciously. “My squires.”

Tommy protested at the description, and then George had mentioned that he was going to go back to his brand-new dorm room with his brand-new roommate, and in under two minutes Tommy had weaseled himself and Tubbo into coming along. And so George spent his second-ever night at college with two freeloading fourteen year olds and their landlord, his brand-new roommate with the cool headband disdainfully glaring over a blunt that he refused to share with any of them.

Fortunately, Sapnap had forgiven him. Unfortunately, George had discovered the following Christmas that Wilbur’s New York apartment was barely a twenty-minute walk from Eret’s. Wilbur had called to invite him over, conveniently forgotten to mention that Tommy and Tubbo were  _ very  _ interested in the nice bottle of rum he’d acquired, and the evening ended with the rum spilled all over the carpet and George’s shoes. It was an arduous, squishy, sticky walk home, and George had refused all further interactions with both of them.

A hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Dream standing next to him, Tubbo pushing through the crowd closely behind. “How was handing out flowers?”

“It would have been better if I didn’t have a  _ baby _ sitter,” Tubbo spat, brushing past Dream to knock shoulders with Tommy. “I could have done it by meself, Wil.” 

“He could have,” Tommy added, loyal to the last. “We get along just fine by ourselves.”

Wilbur narrowed his eyes. “You tried to bake a potato and it exploded in my oven.”

“And we cleaned it up,” Tubbo protested.

“You fucked up  _ rice.” _

Tommy jabbed a finger in Wilbur’s face. “It’s not our fault you didn’t tell us – ”

A guy knocked into him, interrupting him. “Young  _ man!” _

“What,” Tommy snapped.

The stranger stumbled back a couple steps, and grinned a yellowy smile from ear to ear. His head turned, slowly, like a doll on strings, to land directly on George, their eyes meeting. “A program for today’s events,” he said, holding out a piece of paper in trembling hands, his eyes feverish and rolling in his skull. 

George’s decision to make eye contact now seemed like the wrong one.

“What the fuck,” Dream muttered. George shook his head, nonplussed, slowly taking the paper and tearing his eyes away. He had only skimmed the first few lines before Tommy snatched it from his grip.

“Let me see that.” Tommy seemed equally as confused as he turned the paper round in his hands. “October 21 … blah blah blah …  _ Planet Earth? _ What the fuck is this rubbish…?  _ We Freemen, of all colors of the spectrum, in the name of God, Ra, Jehovah, Anubis, Osiris, Tlaloc, Quetzalcoatl, Thoth –  _ I’m all for the levitation, but you can have  _ this _ back, you fucking weirdo.” He dropped the paper on the ground and crushed it under his heel. “How many drugs are you on?”

“How many drugs do you want?”

Tommy sneered in his face and Wilbur stepped forward. “Fuck off. Go talk to someone who actually wants to listen.”

“But you’re  _ here, _ aren’t you?” The man moved close to Wilbur, his face turned up, eyes gleaming, mouth spread in an eerie smile. “Here, at the turning point of this war on war. Today we change the course of history.” 

And he was gone, turning around Wilbur who rotated to face him as he left, two tiny gears in the giant mechanism of a protest.

“Whatever he was taking, I want some,” Tubbo piped up, and Wilbur smacked him across the back of his head.

“You absolutely do not.”

“Isn’t Allen Ginsberg here?” Tubbo asked, continuing as though Wilbur hadn’t spoken. “Have you _read_ _Howl?_ I absolutely do.” 

Tommy snorted. “Howl’s not even that good – ”

“Suck my tits.”

Tommy cackled, bending over at the waist in laughter. In George’s mind, echoing: “ _ I’m with you in Rockland / Where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha _ … _ ” _

Dream piped up behind him. “I haven’t read  _ Howl.” _

“Of course  _ you _ haven’t,” Tommy spat, sobering instantly. “You probably only read Shakespeare and… I dunno. Shakespeare’s prissy girlfriend.”

Dream’s eyes were glimmering.  _ Shakespeare’s prissy girlfriend, _ George mouthed at him, and Dream stuck his tongue out.

“You too, George,” Tommy added. “You read, like… I dunno any other poets. Like, the road untraveled, or something like that.”

George rolled his eyes and began to correct him. “The road  _ less  _ trav – ” 

The shrill screams rising around them cut him off. Dream’s grip on his upper arm tightened. Through a megaphone, droning of voices, half-vocalizing and half-speaking, the clattering of cowbells, and words ringing through the mesmerized crowd.

_ “IN THE NAME OF THE AMULETS OF TOUCHING, SEEING, GROPING, HEARING AND LOVING, WE CALL UPON THE POWERS OF THE COSMOS TO PROTECT OUR CEREMONIES IN THE NAME OF ZEUS, IN THE NAME OF ANUBIS, GOD OF THE DEAD, IN THE NAME OF ALL THOSE KILLED BECAUSE THEY DO NOT COMPREHEND, IN THE NAME OF THE LIVES OF THE SOLDIERS IN VIETNAM WHO WERE KILLED BECAUSE OF A BAD KARMA, IN THE NAME OF SEA-BORN APHRODITE…” _

George chanced a look at Dream, whose mouth was open, eyebrows raised, gaze fixed on what he could see of the men on the platform, eating up the surrounding crowd as they chanted with them. He snickered. “Not what you expected?”

“Are they serious?”

George shrugged. “Not as serious as that guy before.” He nodded towards the crumpled flyer on the ground. “Serious enough.”

_ “OUT, DEMONS, OUT! _ _   
_ _ BACK TO DARKNESS YE SERVANTS OF SATAN! _ _   
_ _ OUT, DEMONS, OUT! _ _   
_ _ OUT, DEMONS, OUT!” _

Full minutes of shouting in another language, and the ringing of cowbells. Cheers and screams. George could see nothing of what was happening, but the commotion was loud enough for him to guess. The raising of the Pentagon. The attempted exorcism. The stirring of the pot, the heat and anger and wild feeling rising out of the crowd. He looked at the Pentagon, rising behind the white hats of the marshals. It wasn’t moving.

Pushing and shoving. George stumbled, desperate to keep his footing. The marshals surrounding the Pentagon, just inside the flimsy rope barrier, were shouting senselessly as the crowd surged. A hoarse bellow of victory, and the flood was cut off at the throat.

“What happened?” Tubbo asked, jumping to try to see over the heads of the crowd as they pushed him towards Dream and George.

“One of ‘em got through!” Tommy hollered, punching the air. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “PEACE NOW!”

Dream shook him and George looked up. “What?”

“I thought you said this was going to be peaceful.”

“I  _ said  _ it was gonna be weird, Dream.”

Dream threw his hands up. “You didn’t mention – ”

“I can’t  _ predict – ” _

And then, a firework of motion. The crowd swept forward. Pops echoed all over the parking lot, yelling ricocheted off of the walls. Dream’s hand tightened on George and out of the corner of his eye, George saw him reach for Tubbo, his other hand locking around his arm even as Tubbo thrashed in his grip. The people behind them pushed and George stumbled, and Dream’s hand detached, the wave sweeping George towards the Pentagon. He turned, frantic, and Dream’s wide eyes disappeared behind other faces even as he reached out. 

Tommy, grinning, leapt into the crowd with a shout of “ _ GET ‘EM, BOYS!” _ Wilbur grabbed George’s elbow and George gripped onto his upper arm and over the roaring of the crowd, he could barely make out the words  _ I’m going after him. _

Wilbur burst through the crowd and pulled George with him as a hundred solid people breached the barrier. A horrific rush of deranged joy and rage billowed inside him, and his feet, his feet, felt everything, pounded against the ground as they ran, the infuriated howls of the marshals as they struggled to contain the rest of the crowd, the thunderings of tens of tens of thousands of feet bursting through the soil, the ground underneath the building that had murdered millions. 

“PEACE NOW!” someone’s strangled voice screamed, and in response, “ _ LIFT THE PENTAGON!” _ and  _ “OUT, DEMONS! OUT!” _

The laughter, familiar, as they approached the steps. Tommy, his electric eyes bright and racing and wild. Wilbur, eyes wide, hair flung every which way, not far off from them. Levitating the Pentagon. There were so many of them. What  _ couldn’t _ the concentrated power of fifty thousand people do?

And how it went wrong. The pop, this hiss, the smell, the smoke. Then the screams, not of anger and justice, but pain and fear. Scattering, terrified, the crowd behind them, and George turned as the world stilled and the canister shuddered to a halt at his feet. 

George threw an arm over his eyes and braced.

He whipped his face away but the tear gas was already leaking, moving like it was replacing the air, winding through the protesters on the steps as they stumbled and choked and cried out. His mouth was burning, his eyes were on fire, melting like scalding lava, and the wet on his face leaking from his eyes, his nose. Was that blood in his mouth? He couldn’t tell. The gas was a fog around them, an opaque cloud, and George tried to stumble his way down the stairs, desperate to find relief, for anything at all to make the pain better. 

Like onions or jalapeños, a thousand times worse. The knife cut into his eyes like butter. He was leaking, tears springing from his eyes, coughing up nothing. Nothing in his lungs but pure pain.

The air was clearer here, where he’d walked to, and he fell to his knees, gasping for breath. His hands moved across the ground, the rough ground, and then smooth – the steps. The base of the steps. God, he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. Someone was praying near him, voice rasping through the gas in their throat, and he reached out. 

A hoarse cry. “George! Wilbur!”

George struggled to his feet, tried to open his eyes. A serrated edge raked across the soft jelly of his eyeballs, his lashes turned to steel. “Tommy!”

Tommy’s form, tall and lanky, out of the tear gas. Knees bent, hand over his eyes. “George!”

And then they appeared. Gas masks protecting their faces, emerging from the thickening clouds like demons. Tommy, thrown to the ground, and oh god, the darkening of the steps around him, and all George could see was light and dark through his eyelashes, and still he took steps towards Tommy, reaching out, and calling his name –

Something exploded across the back of his head. And nothing.

And something. He opened his eyes, realized he was still in riotous amounts of pain, and closed them. How much time had passed? He made to get up and panic suffused him as he realized he was unable to move his hands. His face was pressed into the ground, the world spinning around him, and his hands were unresponsive. Fuck. Fuck. Now? Whatever it was, it was happening now, and his brain said to him, move, move, move. He strained his arms.  _ Please work. Please work. _

Rough hands against his shoulders and elbows, pulling him to his knees. He was disoriented, confused, but slowly his brain came to realize what it meant. He could still feel. “Get up. Come on.” 

“Heyo, Marshal! Gotta give him the, uh, uh,” another voice said. “The Mirandas?”

“Fuck. That fucking bullshit. Back in my fucking day you didn’t have to coddle criminals.” George was hauled to his feet and he felt tears leaking from his eyes. The tear gas was slowly dissipating, and around him, he saw other protesters being carted away, some limp, some being dragged, some struggling against the cops. He must not have been out for very long. “Dune, what was it again?”

“Fuck, Morris, are you fucking stupid? Here, give him to me, at least I have a fucking brain.” George felt himself unceremoniously change hands and a push to his back. “Start fucking walking. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law…” 

George felt himself tuning out as his head lolled. The marshal’s badge number blurred before his eyes. Somewhere in his head, Eret reminded him to always take down the badge number of the person arresting him. Fuck.

Sorry, Eret. 

He collapsed onto the ground as soon as the marshal let go of him. In front of him was a large, black paddy wagon, police slowly admitting people in as they took their names, other protesters around him, heads hung, crying, gasping for breath. 

“Help,” one of them gasped, his head turned up, his eyes bloodshot and puffy, a rash spreading ugly and bubbly across his face. He inhaled, and it was long, rattling, like two stones grinding against each other. “Please, my inhaler. It’s in my pocket.”

None of the cops looked at him. 

“ _ PLEASE!” _ he begged, and everyone’s head turned towards him as his breaths ran faster and faster, as he panicked, and his lungs began to fail him. “Please! Help me.”

“I gotcha, big man,” Tommy’s raspy voice said, and George’s attention focused as Tommy, to his left, slowly crawled on his knees towards the man. “It’s in your pocket?”

“Don’t move!” shouted one of the cops. “Sit back down.”

“I never stood,” Tommy snapped, and George tried to catch his eye, tried to shake his head at him. “This poor fucker’s going to pass out if  _ someone _ doesn’t help him.”

“I said,” the marshal said, stalking over, his baton in hand, his black boots up to his knees, at eye-level with Tommy, “don’t. Fucking. Move.”

Tommy glanced at the man, whose breaths came shorter and shorter, and his eyes closed. He sat back on his haunches and didn’t say anything.

The asthmatic lay on his side, eventually, and took his short, rattling breaths in and out. He was completely passed out by the time he was loaded into the paddy wagon with the rest of them, and the cops tossed him right at George’s feet, slamming the door behind him, the bang ringing painfully in George’s ears.

Once the cops were gone from their midst, Wilbur spoke, his voice slashed in half. “Tommy, you fool.” 

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Not get yourself in trouble.”

“He was literally fucking dying.”

Wilbur was on the floor of the paddy wagon, along with the asthmatic man and several others, and George looked over at him. “Could you see if you could get to his inhaler?”

Wilbur shrugged. “I could try.” He slowly scooted towards George, moving so his back and his hands were angled towards the man. “Am I within reach?”

“Almost,” George said. 

“I feel so weird reaching into another man’s pockets,” Wilbur joked, and it got a couple chuckles from the others in the wagon. George tried for a tired smile, but it fell flat. Wilbur looked over his shoulder at George. “You’re gonna have to guide me.” 

And guide he did, the paddy wagon jostling them as George tried to help Wilbur find the man’s inhaler, quiet words between them. “Up, down. No, to your right. Yes, your right. Too far right – Wilbur,  _ too far right – ”  _ until Wilbur had extracted the inhaler. 

“Now what?” he said, and George frowned. They hadn’t thought this far ahead.

“Maybe we wake him?” someone else in the wagon suggested. George made eye contact with Wilbur, who shrugged.

George nudged the man with his foot, trying to be gentle about it. Slowly, the man awoke, breaths becoming more and more audible as he realized where he was. He panicked, until Wilbur proffered the inhaler, and carefully helped him breath in, compressing, and then releasing, until the man leaned back, the relief evident on his face.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice still shattered, but his breathing no longer wet and hoarse and terrifying. “Thank you.” 

“Yeah, man, no problem,” Wilbur said. “It’s what we do for each other.” 

The man nodded from his position on the floor. “It is. Thank you.”

The wagon screeched to a halt, and they were all thrown into each other as the engine turned off, the bangs of the cops in the front getting out and taunting them, hitting the thin metal walls as they moved around the wagon.

“On three, we all jump them,” Tommy said suddenly.

“Terrible idea,” Wilbur snapped emphatically. “I cannot express how terrible an idea that is.”

“I like it,” someone said. “Out, demons, out!”

A snicker, and then the doors were thrown open, the early evening light blinding after the low of the lights in the paddy wagon. “Come on, fuckers,” the same marshal who had read George his Miranda rights said. “Hop to it. Let’s get you inside.”

They trudged into the police station, single file, and slowly filtered into the holding cell as they were unshackled from the handcuffs, fifteen of them crammed into a tiny room with three cots, a plexiglass window between them and the main hall of the precinct. George maneuvered himself into a corner as other people moved straight up to the windows and leered out at the cops drinking coffee and quietly congratulating the marshals on the arrests. 

He closed his eyes and sank to the disgusting floor, his head leaned back against the wall, the injury on the back of his skull screaming in protest. He thanked fuck he wasn’t here for another reason.

Eret had told him once, what it was like being arrested in drag. The humiliation. The way they’d searched her body, harassed her, called her filthy names. Then the sickening smell of shame rising from the queers arrested alongside her as they were driven to the police station in the middle of the night. The way the men in the prison talked to her. How she’d secluded herself in the corner, pulled her skirt close to her, and closed her eyes and wished to wake up.

The pain was numbing, now, and George hated numbness. He focused in on the razor sharp edge in his eyes, the spike through his throat. The sore of his lungs. He touched each of his fingers to his thumb, one at a time, slowly, as if he was checking for frostbite. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4.

One of the cops came back in, and at the door there was scuffling, the cop speaking quickly, and a bark of an order. Tommy’s shout, “ _ Wilbur!” _ and then the door slammed shut again. Tommy shouted again, banged on the window. George watched through hazy eyes as a taller man put a hand on his shoulder, spoke quietly to him, and Tommy’s hostility faded. He looked over at George, and then down at the ground.

George closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders, his head lolling against the wall and the raw softness at the back of skull scraping against the cinderblock. 

A shifting next to him, the slight rustling of clothes and the squeak of shoes on the floor. Tommy sat next to him, quiet, his arms wrapped around his legs. “They took Wilbur.”

“They’re just processing him,” George said. “He’ll be back.”

“I  _ know _ he’ll be back,” Tommy spat. “I know how this works. I’m not stupid.”

“Never said you were.”

Tommy didn’t respond. George breathed slowly; in, and out. 1, 2, 3, 4.

“I didn’t mean to get arrested.” 

“Does anybody?” George asked dryly. “It’s not an ideal circumstance.” 

Tommy snorted. “You think you’re  _ so  _ funny.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.  _ I’m _ funny.”

George sighed. “Okay, Tommy.”

Tommy was quiet for another moment. And then, his voice a tiny croak: “Are you going to be okay?”

George cracked open one dry eye. “Are you?”

Tommy laughed. Shook his head. “No.”

George closed his eye. “If you want to do this again, at least you’re better prepared.”

“That’s kind of bleak.”

George shrugged. “We do it now so it doesn’t have to happen again. That’s how – ” He cleared his throat. “That’s how change happens. It’s up to us.”

“Sounds kind of self-aggrandizing.”

“How the fuck do you even know that word,” George said. 

“I read.” Tommy paused. “Sometimes.”

George huffed, a smile tickling the corners of his mouth. “I was a body,” he explained. “Nothing but a body. All it takes is a lot of bodies.”

Tommy  _ hmm _ ed and shifted a little next to him.

“Do you think that guy was right?” he asked, after a little while. “What he said, about the protest being a turning point, or whatever.”

“I don’t know.” George turned his head towards Tommy, eyes still closed. “We’ll have to see.”

His plan was to sleep. Head wound or no, he was exhausted, and achy, and the wall was cold and hard but it was better than nothing. But then Tommy spoke again. 

“George.”

George sighed. “Tommy.”

“Do you know, um – do you – Wilbur has these, Wilbur has records, and, you know how Tubbo reads or whatever.”

George hadn’t known that. “Sure.”

“Well, I – I listen to some of Wilbur’s – do you know any songs?”

George shook his head and opened his eyes, squinting at Tommy. “What are you asking?” 

“Well, I got – uhh, I got arrested a bit ago, I may have – I  _ may _ have had something,  _ may  _ have had something – in my possession that wasn’t mine. It’s not important. But I was in the holding cell with some folks, and they knew this song that Wilbur had in his records.”

“Okay,” George said.

“I just don’t remember how it starts.”

“What do you remember?”

Tommy bit his lip. In a shaky voice, still wretched from tear gas, he began, slow and quiet: “ _ I even killed my brothers, / And a whole lot of others, / But I ain’t marchin’ anymore – _ ” His voice caught and sent him into a coughing fit, wracking his whole body as his lungs struggled to function. George put a hand on his back and slowly he began to breathe again. When he could speak, he said, “That’s all I remember, I – ”

“ _ For I marched to the battles of the German trench / In a war that was bound to end all wars, / Oh I must have killed a million men / And now they want me back again, / But I ain't marchin’ anymore.” _

Tommy’s head shot up at the raspy voice that continued the song. The asthmatic, gracelessly slouched on the bench, nodded back at him. 

Oh. George knew this song. The quick strumming of the guitar, the sad and proud voice of the singer in the recording. This version, Tommy’s version, was slower, hesitant, more resigned to its fate. 

“ _ It’s always the old who lead us to the wars; / Always the young to fall,” _ Tommy slowly joined in, his eyes brightening, the words visibly coming back to him. “ _ Now look at all we’ve won with the saber and the gun, / Tell me is it worth it all?” _

He looked over at Tommy, red-eyed from tear gas. George’s British citizenship might have saved him from the draft, but nothing would save Tommy or Tubbo. Tubbo might have been seventeen, George thought, or maybe his birthday was soon. He barely had a year until he was eligible for the draft, and he didn’t have money to protect him. How do you celebrate your birthday, knowing that it might be the last year of your life?

Most of the protesters in the holding cell were singing now through their gravelly lungs, the song slow for everyone’s dry voice, often interrupted by a coughing fit. No one was in the same key, and everyone had a different way of singing it, but the meaning was clear enough. The resignation at the end of every verse. The irony that twisted their faces into ugly smiles.

_ For I flew the final mission in the Japanese skies _ _   
_ _ Set off the mighty mushroom roar _ _   
_ _ When I saw the cities burning _ _   
_ _ I knew that I was learning _ _   
_ _ That I ain't marching anymore _

And then the door opened, and Wilbur was shoved in, stumbling and brushing his shoulders off, his eyes wild and bright as he instinctively joined the music.

_ Now the labor leader's screamin' _ _   
_ _ When they close the missile plants _ _   
_ _ United Fruit screams at the Cuban shore _ _   
_ _ Call it peace or call it treason _ _   
_ _ Call it love or call it reason _ _   
_ _ But I ain't marching anymore _ _   
_ _ No, I ain't marching anymore _

And the cop grabbed the nearest elbow, and the poor man nearest to the door was removed from the music and taken out to be processed.

_ No, I ain’t marching anymore _ _   
_ _ No, I ain’t marching anymore. _

“George Verloren.”

George’s eyes snapped open.

It was dark inside the holding cell, the only light filtering in from the low-hanging ceiling lights above the officers’ desks. The door was cracked open, one of the cops poking his ugly head in. 

George stirred and clumsily sat forward. 

“George Verloren. I’m not gonna ask again.”

“That’s me,” George said, getting to his feet and carefully maneuvering around Tommy, snoring to his left. 

“You’re out on bail.”

That brought George up short. “I’m what?”

“Are you fucking deaf? I said, you’re out on bail.”

George glanced over at Tommy and Wilbur. “Just me?”

“Why are you complaining? Get out. Front desk will have you sign some forms.”

George stepped over the rest of the sleeping protesters and the cop threw the door open for him and stood aside, his arms folded. George poked his head out of the door, looked to the right, at the cop, and then to the left at –

“Let’s go,” Dream said, his face impassive. Hair pulled back tight around his face in a tight bun, glasses tucked into his pocket. Dark jacket, fur around the collar, tailored around his shoulders, and his jaw tense. A cop scurried around him, his head ducked. 

“I – ” George said. “What about – ”

“Let’s. Go.”

He turned on his heel, disappearing down the corridor, and George chased after him. “Hold the fucking phone, arsehole, what about Tommy and Wilbur?”

“What about them?”

“Well, how much was my bail?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It  _ does _ matter. Tommy and Wilbur – ”

“Shouldn’t have gotten themselves arrested.”

“Shouldn’t have – !”

They’d arrived at the front desk, and George found out how much his bail was, as Dream forked over fifty dollars in cash. He signed forms, promised to be back for arraignment in two days, and Dream dragged him out of the police station, almost knocking into a cop walking in carrying his morning coffee.

“What do you  _ mean, _ shouldn’t have gotten themselves arrested?” George snarled as Dream carried on, ignoring the splutters of the now coffee-soaked officer. “I got myself arrested and you seem perfectly fine getting  _ me _ out on bail.”

“You’re different.”

“Oh, I’m  _ different. _ You’re fucking biased. You couldn’t give less of a shit – ”

Dream let go of George against the side of his car, parked haphazardly on the side street behind the station. “Get in.”

“ _ Get in,” _ George mocked, staying still. “Tommy is  _ sixteen. _ They threw him onto the ground and tear-gassed him. You think – ”

“And his lawyer will have a field day with it. Get. In.”

“Make me.”

Over the roof of the car, their gazes locked, the intensity of Dream’s eyes glittering under the rising sun. “I will.”

George ground his teeth and got in. 

They sat in silence. Dream, agitated, his fingers tapping a beat out on the steering wheel. And then he was lunging towards George and George barely had time to put his hand up in front of his face. “Don’t kiss me.”

“I don’t care about the cops.”

“It’s not about the cops. There’s still tear gas in my mouth.”

Dream stilled. “What?”

“I haven’t gotten a chance to flush the tear gas out of my system,” George said, letting himself lean back in the comfort of the plush seat. Holy shit, it was the most comfortable thing he’d ever felt. Maybe falling asleep against a cinderblock cell wall wasn’t very good for his back. “They didn’t give any of us the chance.”

“So you…”

“...have been sitting for hours in a tiny, cramped room with fifteen other people, all of whom just got tear-gassed, and it’s been slowly sinking into my body?” George asked. “Are you surprised?”

Dream stared out the front windshield, for a still, silent second.

And then he gunned it and peeled out onto the main street. George grabbed onto the door. “Dream – what the fuck – ”

“I’m taking you to a hospital.”

“ _ That _ is the incorrect response. The correct response is – ”

“To take you to a hospital.”

“ –  _ to take everyone else in that fucking room to a hospital, Dream,  _ because they’re all in the same boat as me! Fuck’s sake, the cops wouldn’t even let a guy use his inhaler!”

Dream’s knuckles, white on the steering wheel. He did not respond.

Hours later, George sat with fiery tears streaming down his face as the fancy eye drops the doctors gave him flushed the tear gas from his eyes. Dream was out in the lobby, most likely pacing and ranting to someone that didn’t deserve his ire, like what he had done when the nurses told him he wasn’t allowed to go with George.

George tilted his head back and tried not to sob. They’d had him take a cold shower too, and were washing his clothes free of tear gas particles. Bandages wrapped carefully around his head – not a concussion, just a nasty head wound. Instructions to change the wrappings twice every day, keep the wound clean and washed with cold water. His eyes were the final step, and the most painful one. 

The nurse bustled around the room he was in, just cordoned off from the main area by a curtain hanging from a rod. Her face was soft and round, and her nametag said  _ Angela G. _ George flexed his hands and looked up at her. 

There was no harm in it. There was no one else around. He could ask it. He could ask her.

He took a deep breath and spoke. “Do you know of anything that would make your limbs go numb?”

She turned to him, a frown on her face. “From tear gas?”

George shook his head. “No – if, if you wake up one day and you can’t feel your arm. Or, your leg just goes numb randomly in the middle of the day.”

She grimaced. “Sounds terrible. Has it been happening to you?”

George paused, and nodded. “Yeah.”

“Hmm.” She folded her arms and tapped her foot. “Well, I’m not a specialist, so I’m afraid I can’t be of much help, but that sounds like an issue with your nervous system. Why don’t I get the on call, Dr. Taina, and you can ask him?”

George reeled. Vaguely, he registered his voice saying, “That’d be great, thanks,” and the nurse pulled aside the curtain and stepped out.

His nervous system. He tapped each of his fingers to his thumb. 1, 2, 3, 4. Repeat, repeat. 

“Hi there. My name is Dr. Taina. Are you George Verloren?” 

George looked up at the doctor, a middle-aged man with M-pattern baldness. “Hi. Yes.”

“Nurse Angela said you had a question for me?”

George nodded. “I’ve been – I’ve had – ” He sighed. “Sometimes I go numb – my limbs go numb.” Why was it suddenly so hard? He tucked his hands underneath his legs. “Randomly, like when I wake up, or just in the middle of the day.”

“It is usually just on one side of your body? Or is it both, like your right arm and your left leg.”

George thought back to the protest in April, the numbness spreading through his entire left side. “Just one side.”

“And how often would you say this happens?”

George’s feet skittered across the floor. “I mean – it hasn’t happened in – in months. But before that, it happened in April, like mid-April, and in March as well, and February.” He thought back to standing up on the plane to London, his knee weak, feet feeling strange. “Maybe in December too.”

Dr. Taina took a notepad from his jacket pocket, scribbling something on it. “I have a couple ideas on what might be going on, but I’m unable to provide an official diagnosis and I don’t want to tell you something and have it be wrong. Here.” He held the piece of paper out to George. “You listed your primary address in New York. This is a referral to our counterpart in New York City. It’s the best neurology center in the whole of the state – they’ll give you a decisive answer. Call them, schedule an appointment, and tell them what you told me.”

“I’m not – ” George shook his head. “New York C – I go to school near Poughkeepsie, I can’t just be in New York City.”

Taina glanced up at him over his glasses, his eyebrows raised and his eyes regretful. “You might just have to be.”

George exited through the double doors, dressed in clothes warm from the dryer, the folded referral in his pocket. The hot air hit him with a blast. He scanned the lobby for Dream’s hulking figure and found him sitting in a corner, his hair spilling around his shoulders, elbows on his knees and face scrunched in thought. Tubbo gestured pointedly to him, speaking under his breath. 

“Tubbo! Dream!” George said, his eyes meeting Dream’s and the electric shock of it sending heat through his cheeks. He shoved down the urge to touch him. “What are – Tubbo, what are you doing here?”

Tubbo sat straighter, his brow creasing. “Dream drove me over. How are you feeling?”

George shrugged and collapsed into the chair next to Dream, soaking in his presence. “Well, I’m not in burning pain anymore.” He held up the tiny bottle of eye drops. “I have to use these every morning for the next week just to make sure, but they said it should flush most of the tear gas out of my eyes. Nothing they can do for what I’ve inhaled except tell me to keep breathing.”

Dream tsked. “Nothing they can do? This is literally the best hospital in D.C., what do you mean – ”

“I don’t really want to have them go into surgery and try to scrape out the insides of my lungs,” George said shortly. “I’ll survive.”

“Are you – ”

“I just want to go home,” George sighed.

Dream looked down at his lap and a smile bloomed across Tubbo’s face.

“Something up?” George asked.

“Uh,” Dream said. “We might have to wait a second.”

“Wait? Why?”

“I – ” Dream sighed. “I thought a lot about what you said. After – after we left the police station. And I – ”

“He went back!” Tubbo blurted out, leaning forward. “Well, he came to talk to me at Wilbur’s motel. And I sort of got angry.”

“Punched me,” Dream said.

“I did do that. It didn’t do much damage.”

Now that George looked, there was a tiny red mark underneath Dream’s right eye. “I can see where you punched him.”

Tubbo looked close, his eyes lighting up even as Dream pushed him away with a grumble. “You can?”

“You’re left-handed, right?”

“Big man!”

George looked up to see a lanky blond boy striding across the lobby towards them, followed closely by a very pissed-off Wilbur Soot. Tubbo leapt out of his chair and engulfed Tommy in a big hug, his face glowing with happiness and relief.

“Toxin free, aren’t we, boys?” Tommy asked, as they released each other, his face breaking out in a big smile. “What a wonderful feeling.”

George looked over at Dream, who was scowling, his arms folded but his eyes soft as he looked at Tommy and Tubbo, reveling in each others’ presence. “I’m sure it is.”

“Only after pain will you understand what pleasure is,” Wilbur said serenely. 

Dream scoffed. “Who the fuck said that?”

Wilbur shot him a glare. “I did.”

Tommy extended a hand to George and George accepted it, pulling himself out of the chair. “Well, I’m glad you two aren’t in that holding cell anymore,” George said, brushing himself off. His eyes met Tommy’s and something gentle settled in his stomach. “Thanks for keeping me company in there.”

Tommy nodded. “You as well.” He shook George’s hand a couple times. “I’ll see you at arraignment?”

George sighed. He’d forgotten about  _ court. _ “A warrant for my arrest in Arlington if I don’t go? Yeah, I’ll see you there. Wilbur?”

“Oh. I’m not going to arraignment,” Wilbur said, grinning. “I’ll take my chances with a warrant.”

George raised an eyebrow. “Fuck your degree, then.” 

Tommy cackled. “George Verloren, I do miss being around you sometimes,” he said, clapping George on the shoulder. “See you in a few days.”

George stepped away to stand with Dream, hovering quietly a few feet away. Their shoulders brushed and together they watched as Wilbur, Tommy, and Tubbo disappeared through a far door, laughing and bumping into each other, a bundle of high-strung nerves and energy.

Dream turned, his knuckles bumping against George’s arm as he held the door open to the parking lot. The walk to the car was silent, the air between them filled with the gravity of unspoken things.

They sat in the car for several minutes, the heat turned up to full blast, as George wrapped his arms around himself and let the warmth suffuse him.

“You shouldn’t have ran,” Dream eventually said, his voice chilly.

“What?”

“You should have stayed back. When everyone else went towards the Pentagon.”

“I didn’t really have much of a choice.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I didn’t, but what if I had, Dream? And I still ran?”

“Piss-poor decision on your part.”

“Because I believe in something?”

Dream scoffed. “Lifting the Pentagon three hundred feet in the air?”

“I’ll bet you maybe ten people there actually believed in that bullshit,” George said. 

“More than that.”

George ignored him. “You know what they  _ did  _ believe in. Peace.”

“Wow,” Dream said. “They really proved it, too.”

“Who fired the tear gas?” George snapped. “Who slammed Tommy down on the ground so hard he was bleeding for thirty minutes with no first-aid? Who hurt  _ me, _ Dream?”

“You didn’t have to be there.”

“Neither did you.”

“I was scared,” Dream snapped.

Anger, coiled like a live wire. “Get in line.”

The silence was sticky and heavy. Words that carried weight, piled on top of each other until they were crushing. They had said the unspoken things and still nothing was resolved.

George refused to look at him. Almost jumped as Dream’s hand found his, fingers dry and brittle over the shift. His skin was rough, peeling as the cold of October dried him out. Laced their fingers together, and his fingertips were chilly against the back of George’s hand, his palm warm and sweaty. Almost unconsciously, George squeezed, felt a sob choke the back of his throat, the heat behind his eyes that this time, wasn’t because of a noxious chemical.

“I was so fucking scared.”

He didn’t say anything. Breathed in and out, long, long breaths. He was safe. He was whole.

_ For now, _ something whispered behind his ears, and he pushed it away.

“ _ I am here, or there, or elsewhere,” _ Dream said, soft and hopeful.

Their hands folded over each other, the kiss they were unable to give. George’s voice, scratched and quiet.  _ “In my end is my beginning.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that’s ACTUALLY what happened on October 21, 1967. The idea was to levitate the Pentagon 300 feet in the air, although the organizers (including Abbie Hoffman, Jerry Rubin, and Allen Ginsberg) only got a permit for [10 feet](https://timeline.com/pentagon-exorcism-ae0aad1b55c5). The protest began at the Lincoln memorial, where a few people (Benjamin Spock, David Dellinger) gave speeches and Phil Ochs performed, and then the protesters marched a long trek to the Pentagon. The pamphlet is real [(the whole thing is a bit yikes)](https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smithsonian-institution/how-rag-tag-group-acid-dropping-activists-tried-levitate-pentagon-180965338/) and the Fugs actually performed ["Out, Demons, Out"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Wcz0lEYS64) at the protest as well. A few of the organizers also began to chant rituals from different cultures (also yikes): “Mayan traditional healers sprinkled cornmeal in circles of power, and Allen Ginsberg declaimed [Tibetan] mantras for the cause” (quote from the Smithsonian article linked above) and pretty much after that was when protesters broke the line and stormed the building. 
> 
> Also, the Miranda v. Arizona court case ended in 1966 with the institution of the Miranda warning, so having your Miranda rights read to you was a VERY new thing in ‘67. I thought that would be a fun tidbit!
> 
> And yes, the protesters who tried to make it in were teargassed before they could get inside. A few people made it in, but they didn’t go too far, and Robert McNamara, the Secretary of Defense, [was safe in his office the entire time, watching the protest out his window.](https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/retropolis/wp/2017/10/19/the-day-anti-vietnam-war-protesters-tried-to-levitate-the-pentagon/)
> 
> So I wanna talk about current events. Skip this paragraph if you hate current events. That scene was actually not (at least initially) a response to the events of January 6th – I’ve had the violent protest scene planned in since I was first outlining, and I wrote the first draft of that scene on fucking January 5th. It was surreal to see the STARK difference the next day. So there IS historical precedence for people storming government buildings in/around Washington, D.C., and we get to see the difference in police response (although it was [US Marshals](https://www.usmarshals.gov/history/civilian/1967a.htm) protecting the Pentagon in ‘67 – still piggies!) between 1967 and 2021. Many people pointed out - and I’m sure we all read or saw something about it - how different the police response was from even the BLM protests from summer 2020. Same thing with the police response to the civil rights protests of the 60s as well – Birmingham, Alabama comes to mind, where police used high pressure water hoses and attack dogs – NOTHING HAS CHANGED. HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF OVER AND OVER.
> 
> I also listened to a lot of protest music from the 60s when Aenqa gave me the idea to have Tommy sing a protest song while in jail. I strongly considered using “Keep Your Eyes on the Prize” ([Pete Seeger](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wfVdY2-aIog) / [Mavis Staples](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ZWdDI_fkns)) but Eyes on the Prize has a stronger connection to the civil rights movement, and the writer and performer of [“I Ain’t Marching Anymore,”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gv1KEF8Uw2k) Phil Ochs, also performed at the Lincoln Center on October 21, 1967. I thought it was more fitting for a protest about the war.
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter! As always, leave a kudos or a comment and tell me what you thought! My tumblr is @princedemeter and my brand-new twitter account is @princehestia. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Our Love Blossoms In The Speakeasy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28531701) by [Venus_flower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venus_flower/pseuds/Venus_flower)




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